


Before the Storm

by TheWalnutGallery



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Bullying, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Face-Fucking, Grinding, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knifeplay, Lots of bad things, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Kissing, Objectification, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Rape/Non-con Elements, Spoilers, Stalking, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Violence, Voyeurism, non-consensual grinding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2019-07-18 19:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 41
Words: 131,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16125032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWalnutGallery/pseuds/TheWalnutGallery
Summary: Pre-gameOuma attempts to find the silver lining after making a deal with his bully. The boy he had to be friends with was definitely weird, but so easy to use. A little affection goes a long way, and one day maybe he could find a happiness of his own.Tags added in advance of future chapters, more may be added later.





	1. Deal

**Author's Note:**

> First multi-chapter fic, took me a while to decide how I wanted this to go, but it's decided and time to get something out here! 
> 
> Please heed the tags so you don't start reading something that might make you uncomfortable later. Tags have been added in advance of what's to come.
> 
> Enjoy!

Another dull thud resounded against the flaking walls around them. It was enough to finally drop the smaller boy to the floor, slumping on the ground with a groan. The larger man’s foot crashed into his side, causing the beaten boy to cough, uniform scraping against the dirty ground. This was usually where it ended, but it seemed his aggressor was particularly hungry for violence. Lifted to his weak legs by muscular arms and thrown again to the floor once again. Kicked over and over while he lay limply, hits punctuated by small gasps of air. Those who wish to be seen as strong were the greatest cowards. 

A few moments had passed from the last hit, he wasn’t usually left in suspense so it seemed safe to assume it was over. Eyes fluttered open and palms pressed against the ground below for support, he saw the man holding his black budget smartphone between his thumb and forefinger, regarding the device with a strange look. The small felt black and white mascot charm dangled tauntingly from the corner. 

“Monokuma?” the taller grumbled more than asked, giving the phone a shake to keep the bear dancing through air. Narrow eyes flicked from the phone to his victim with vague interest. “You’re into Danganronpa?” 

The way he emphasized ‘you’re’ made his meaning clear. Someone like him watched a show like that. Someone as weak, as frightened as he was couldn’t possibly enjoy some brutal murder show. Or maybe it was more along the lines of surprise, someone as meek as him would so openly display that he watched something like that. 

Danganronpa was almost universally beloved, even those who cried out against the violence and inhumanity of it all still watched behind closed doors. There was just a morbid curiosity within all humans that could not deny interest in legal and broadcasted killing and torture. It just ticked all the boxes for massive views. Yet despite the peoples’ love of the series, it was looked down upon in public. No one wanted to admit they held something so awful precious. They were the liars, yet those who were honest were the villains. No one could stand truth in this world. 

He debated on an answer, whether to answer simply ‘yes’ or bite back with something more like ‘you’re not?’ with innocent surprise. The ache throughout his body reminded him that he shouldn’t make any bold moves. He settled for just shifting himself into a standing position wordlessly. What did his answer matter, anyway? 

He could not hide the surprise across his pale features however, when the phone was held out in front of him on the other’s large open palm. Hesitantly he reached out his own hands to take the item from the other, turning it over to check for damage and tucking it back into the pocket from which it had fallen. 

“I’ve got a friend into that shit,” the normally endlessly aggressive man continued, not meeting his eyes. Ouma’s own eyes remained locked on the other, watching his expression as he let out a huff. Magenta eyes slowly made their way back to the smaller male’s face, staring him down unreadably. 

“And?” Ouma finally urged, bored looking into the other man’s face for reason. 

“I’ll bring him here, meet him, share his interest so he stops bugging me about that crap and I’ll let you off,” he explained simply, shoving his scraped fists into the pockets of his school jacket. 

“You’ll let me off?” Ouma echoed, attempting to weigh the pros and cons in his throbbing head. 

“No more beatdowns and your lonely ass gets a buddy. Win, win,” and with that he left, not waiting for an answer. He didn’t need to. The answer was obvious, he had to at least try. 

 

He had enjoyed the few days of uninterrupted journeys home, at least, as much as could knowing where he was going. But all good things had to come to an end. 

“Oi!” the rough voice boomed from next to the alley that usually housed their vicious meetings. 

Two people this time, the normal muscle head bully and what must have been his friend. A boy with a much slimmer frame, no ounce of the strength that the other held. His dark brimmed hat partially obscured his face from a distance. He approached the pair quickly. He heard a small noise from the new person as he reached them, it was an odd noise to make upon meeting a stranger, almost like recognition. 

“This is Shuichi Saihara," he pointed a thumb towards the boy in question at the short introduction. 

“Kokichi Ouma,” he reciprocated just as curtly. 

“You two take the same train, right?” Ouma’s ears perked at the odd statement. Ouma would always leave after the other, after the beatings, so how would he even know that he took a train at all? “Go talk Danganronpa or whatever weirdos. I’ve done my part,” he gestured vaguely as he spoke, turning tail and heading off in another direction as if he couldn’t get away soon enough. Perhaps this ‘friend’ wasn’t as much a friend as he may think. Or maybe he was intimidated by people who were fascinated by that beyond mere punches. 

“We do take the same train, right?” the new boy, Saihara, quietly spoke. The atmosphere was tense and awkward around them as they confirmed that they did indeed take the same line. 

“So, you like Danganronpa?” Ouma started the conversation as they began to walk, he knew that by starting the conversation with his hot topic it showed a mutual interest, and basically gave the other permission to rant. At some point Ouma found himself completely lost in the other’s words, he was so eager to talk about Danganronpa that he seemed to be emptying his mind in its entirety through his mouth. They were almost carried into the train amongst the other travelers, inevitably no seats were available so they stood near one another. Saihara grasped the handrail above while Ouma held onto a cold metal post near the door, yet the other’s words never ceased to flow. 

Being closer to the new boy, and shorter than him allowed Ouma to get a look at Saihara’s face under his hat. Despite his somewhat smart appearance he was really quite unkept. Grey toned skin, sunken dark bags beneath his murky eyes and blue-black hair darkened with grease and dirt hung lifelessly around his face. He was barely listening to the boy’s frenzied words as he examined him, white spit gathering in the corners of his mouth from the excitement of sharing his obsession. A disgusting person in every sense of the word as he hurridly gushed over blood and suffering. 

“Oh, Momota-kun said your stop is the next one,” he suddenly announced, glancing at the visual display. Momota must be the name of the man that frequently terrorized him. And again, strange, Momota would have no reason to know where he lived, that he used the train or where he got off at, yet Saihara was correct. Suspicious, but nothing about this situation wasn’t. 

“Ah, it is,” he realized he needed to respond, and not just stand blankly, lost in his own thoughts. 

“I feel bad, you barely said anything,” his eyes dropped to the floor along with his confidence it seemed. 

“It was more fun to listen to you,” he replied brightly. He had ignored most of what he said, it was probably for the best since the rambling Saihara was likely the type to repeat himself. Momota’s deal still rang through his head, though he didn’t want to have any further contact with this wreck of a human, it was in his best interest to. The words reach Saihara’s ears and perk him back up. 

“Really?” he bashfully asked, not waiting for a response before continuing, “let’s meet again! Same place, Friday, for the new season? It starts Friday. W-we can watch it at mine,” he spoke quickly, barely able to put his words in the right order, attention shifting all over the train, anywhere but Ouma. It was almost endearing. 

“Sure,” he nodded, gripping his bag tighter in preparation for leaving the crowded train, “same place, Friday.” The vehicle screeched and slowed to a stop, Ouma shuffling off with another group of commuters leaving Saihara with that promise.


	2. Debut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the debut episode of the new season of Danganronpa!

Friday came far too quickly. In what felt like no time at all he was walking beside Saihara once more, his incessant talking buzzing in his ears. As they walked to the train Ouma continuously snuck glances at Saihara’s face while he ranted about his favourite motives, his dull eyes shone when Danganronpa was the topic. His face went red when it came to murders and executions, skin glistening. He got more excited just speaking than Ouma could remember feeling about anything. It may have been contagious if the boy wasn’t so repulsive. As long as he smiled at what Saihara had to say, he seemed to be happy. 

Interestingly taking the train to Saihara’s was not as similar as going to his own home as Saihara had him believe. He noticed immediately that they took a train on the same line as before, but moving in the opposite direction. He didn’t say anything about it though. Speaking up about these suspicions now, when he was going to other’s home, was a bad time. He was already going to be alone with a stranger in a private place, he didn’t need to provoke them now. He pondered if this was some kind of set up for murder, Saihara would seem like the type with his obsession after all, but Ouma doubted the other was truly brave enough to do that. In the real world he wouldn’t be rewarded with any flashy execution, and being taken to jail would stop him from being able to watch his favourite show. He would probably survive the day. 

The endless chattering came to a halt, amethyst eyes scanned over the other boy to find the cause. He was fidgety like he wanted to ask a question that he shouldn’t ask. Ouma stared on at him questioningly, and once their eyes met again Saihara spoke. 

“I’ve been talking all about my favourite motives, but what about you? What’s yours?” Ouma thought, there had been a lot of seasons, most of the motives had begun to blend together honestly. A few times they had been creative, but usually just ended up harkening on an older one. 

“That one motive where they were all put in those confinement puzzle rooms and only had computers to speak to each other. They had to help each other with their puzzles which was pretty interesting. It seemed obvious that someone would kill themselves to free everyone else, but in the end one person tricked someone else into getting themselves killed by their own puzzle room.” Saihara watched him closely with baited breath, eyes widening as he seemed to recall the episode himself. 

“That was a really cool motive!” he agreed heartily, nodding frantically as if to display interest in what Ouma had to say, “So you like the intricate murders the most?” 

“I guess, it’s more interesting to try and work out than the violent ones,” he seemed to be ticking all the right boxes as Saihara leaned in closer in excitement. 

“I love trying to work out the blackened before the trials,” he continued to agree, far too close for comfort, breath hot against Ouma’s face. “If I was in Danganronpa I’d be an Ultimate Detective for sure,” he smiled confidently, eyes gleaming with passion. At the following announcement Saihara stood and headed to the door, Ouma silently following suit. 

 

The pair exchanged phone numbers as they strolled, making it so they would no longer need to rely on Momota for future meetings, not that Ouma was sure he wanted that. Saihara having a direct line to him at all times. Walking side by side, Ouma mentally confirmed that there was absolutely no reason for Saihara to know what stop he gets off at. There was no reason for Saihara to ever ride his train when he lived in the opposite direction. There was no reason Momota would know where he lived, his address wasn’t anywhere on his person and he had never even seen Momota near the train station. Saihara would clearly make an awful detective if he thought something like this would be overlooked. But it was still far too dangerous to confront him. It would have to wait. 

“It’s this building,” he dipped towards an apartment complex, fishing his keys from his pocket and leading Ouma up to his door. 

The apartment was surprisingly clean given the boy’s sloppy appearance. Fully furnished and no weird merchandise on display. He had already been forewarned that his parents didn’t live in the same house as he did, this information was now even more surprising. Saihara really kept his home presentable by himself? 

“It’s nice," Ouma simply complimented, the quiet between them unusual and awkward as he removed his shoes and explored. It was small, as to be expected, and very plain. The colour scheme was black and white, which at first looked almost classy but Ouma quickly realized that this was a reference. “It’s like a Monokuma house,” he giggled to Saihara, hoping the charming cheerful façade would ease the tension of being in this situation. 

“Yeah, you got it!” he seemed pleased that the reference had been picked up as he placed snacks on the coffee table of the living room and switched on the TV. The episode time was fast approaching. 

Ouma sat himself on the sofa beside Saihara, it was a small loveseat which placed him much closer to the other boy than he would have liked. Though they weren’t touching he could feel the body heat radiating from beside him. 

 

As they watched through the debut episode of season 51 Ouma began to understand that this guy was really into Danganronpa. Really into it. At first, he had just seemed excited, like anyone could be for a new season of their favourite TV show, but it got weird fast. As the first motive came in Ouma saw his hands grip his knees, white knuckled, his breathing gaining in volume. At the sight of the first murder he was practically drooling. Mouth hung open, eyes locked on the screen. More than any of that, viewing the victim’s body clearly aroused the other boy, if the tent in his pants was anything to go by. Of course, Ouma didn’t mean to look but when sitting so close to someone these things become obvious and hard to hide. This didn’t seem to be an unusual occurrence for the other. As the end credits for the episode rolled Ouma shifted uncomfortably. 

“So, what do you normally do now?” he asked, turning his attention to Saihara, who quickly became very flustered. Ouma tilted his head slightly as if he didn’t know why Saihara would possibly be so dumbfounded to such a harmless question. The answer, however, was painfully obvious – in all likelihood, Saihara would usually deal with that after an episode, but this time he had company. 

“U-um, normally, I would, uh,” he desperately moved his mouth as if expecting something resembling words to escape, “I, uh, I don’t really do anything,” his voice trailed off into nothingness, still shifting his body nervously, finally settling on scooting closer to the smaller boy until the sides of their legs were touching. Ouma ran his eyes up and down Saihara curiously, was he really so confident as to try something? 

“Nothing, huh? I would have thought you’d make some sort of ritual of each episode,” Ouma grinned and laughed gently as he spoke, Saihara’s hard, unmoving gaze disconcerting in return. Seemingly out of nowhere Saihara shut his eyes and leaned in, closing the space between them quickly. Ouma immediately flinched away, pushing his body against the back corner of the sofa wide eyed, hands raised in defense. Saihara blinked his eyes open in confusion at the lack of contact against his pursed lips, noticing the new space created between them. 

“What the fuck?” was Ouma’s only response, genuinely surprised by Saihara’s sudden actions. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he shakily began the apologies, “I-I thought you’d be okay with it,” he tried to explain, making no sense. 

“I’m going,” Ouma firmly stated, standing hastily and grabbing his belongings. 

“I didn’t mean it to be weird!” 

“What were you trying to make it then?” Ouma fumed back, being caught so off-guard was not something he enjoyed. 

“Well, you like Danganronpa and,” Saihara was immediately cut off. 

“You thought you could try and kiss me because I like Danganronpa too? Do you try to kiss goddamn everyone then?” 

“N-no!” Saihara waved his hands in the air uselessly. “It’s not just that, it’s also that you’re really cute and you listen to me and you don’t think I’m a freak for,” his flushed face turned downwards, adrenaline dying down, “being me,” he timidly finished. Ouma just stared back. They had spent time together a grand total of twice, this was far too much. At the same time, he came down from his own fury and knew he couldn’t just storm out and throw Saihara away, there was too much riding on this ‘friendship’. 

“I don’t know how I feel about this,” he finally responded, lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t really know you yet or anything,” Saihara jumped out of his seat at that. 

“But I feel like I know you really well already! And I think we get on really well!” 

“Stop,” Ouma sighed, halting Saihara’s exclamation. “I’ll text you next week.” 

“Before Friday, right? The next episode?” Saihara almost whimpered. 

“Yeah,” Ouma nodded and turned to leave, Saihara saw him to the door. 

“You remember how to get back? I can walk you to the train.” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

 

How can someone be so socially inept? And go so far as to get turned out by a murder. What a terrible person to be associated with. He had to wonder if Momota’s deal was really worth it. If he continued to see Saihara, he would probably try more stuff like that. Saihara was weird in so many ways, he definitely had his theories about the boy, but it wasn’t important. The way he regarded Saihara wasn’t important at all, the only thing about him that mattered was that he wanted to see Ouma, and as long as he did Momota would leave him alone. 

He took a deep breath of cool evening air as he slowly made his way back home. Would he even rather be there? 

Maybe it was time to think about this another way. Sure, he had to keep Momota’s deal, but he wondered if the situation could be made sweeter. He hadn’t had the opportunity to deal with much in the way of romance, or really love of any kind, so maybe he should be focusing on making the most of this instead of running away. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised that the guy made a move on him since, apparently, he was the type that men loved. Small, vulnerable, soft. 

With sickening thoughts filling his brain, he entered the front door of his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you think so far! 
> 
> New chapter every Friday


	3. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunger can only be sated with food or knowledge.

Slumping down alone in his room, the pale boy stared at the contact on his phone. ‘Shuichi Saihara’. They hadn’t communicated since Saihara’s kiss attempt a few days prior, yet now he was looking at that name, considering so many things. 

His body ached, even without Momota’s beatings his body still remained littered in dark bruises. The constant dull throb was familiar, but far from comforting. The cowering and pleading before the people that were supposed to unconditionally care for him made him sick. Worse than that they made it clear that he was nothing but a burden. Unwanted. Unneeded. 

His stomach growled loudly in hunger, when was the last time he had eaten properly anyway? Or eaten at all? He hadn’t been able to grab any money, and he just couldn’t be bothered to steal food. He had done many times before, but at some point, he'd just stopped caring. Did he hope to starve? No, that sounded horribly painful. That would be a pitiful, pointless death. What did he want then? 

He tapped the contact on his screen, followed up with another hesitant tap on ‘message’. 

“Meet me tomorrow morning, there’s a new café opening that I want to check out. We can skip morning classes.” The message would likely seem too close, too friendly after the way he left before. He hoped Saihara would see that as a good thing. 

“Okay, where?” He was cooperating at least. 

“At the train station.” He didn’t get another message, Saihara's text manner was so different from his speaking manner, it was refreshing. 

 

After exchanging curt pleasantries, they began their route to the café. Ouma explained briefly that he’d overheard classmates talking about it, that it had recently opened and everyone thought it was good. Saihara stood stiffly, not speaking nearly as comfortably or openly as he had done before. It was almost more annoying than when he did open his mouth. Something had to be done. 

“Um, about before,” Saihara was actually the one to begin that conversation, just as Ouma had parted his lips to start the same topic. This was better. 

“Yeah, it just,” he slowly responded, pausing to find the right word, Saihara’s eyes on him, “surprised me, is all.” 

“Ah, yes, I guess it was a bit,” Saihara bit down on his lip for a moment, shifting his attention as not to stare, “surprising.” 

“It’s okay,” Ouma hummed back, and their tense walk continued. Better, but still not good. 

 

The café had a quaint appearance, kind of cozy. Since it was school hours it wasn’t busy, but not nearly as empty as it should have been. The menu was small and simple, containing things like sandwiches, omelets, steamed buns, curry and cakes. Each selection was limited, though the choices were appetizing. They settled on omurice, simple but looked good on the plates of other customers. 

“I invited you out, so you’re paying right?” Ouma’s voice was teasing as he stared up at Saihara with huge, pleading eyes. Though his tone was playful, his words were serious. 

“Ah, sure,” Saihara stammered, reaching for his wallet clearly startled by the request. Ouma just beamed up at him, the other appearing to settle a bit as he paid and they took their seats. The conversation began to flow more fluidly as they quietly discussed the episode they had watched together, their opinions on the new characters and theories on the first killer. They hadn’t spoken about it after, so they both had plenty to say. The conversation felt more even, though Saihara still definitely spoke the most. 

 

The meal had been good, especially satisfying after days of continual hunger. As they began to walk away from the café, Ouma kept himself closer to Saihara than he would have otherwise liked to, arms bumping together. Saihara looked down at him, a confused and curious expression playing on his face. 

“Thanks for the food Shu~i~chi!” he broke up and spoke Saihara’s given name in a childish sing-song way. The taller immediately flushed red, pulling his gaze away quickly, embarrassed. 

“A-ah, I-it's fine,” he stuttered helplessly, Ouma’s grin growing. This was all it took? Maybe all this would play out better than expected. The café wasn’t far from either of their schools, they approached the spot they would need to separate to go to their own schools promptly. 

Ouma tugged at Saihara’s sleeve as he turned to his own road, causing him to spin around and face Ouma. Without pause he stretched up on his toes, wrapping his arms around Saihara’s neck and pressed his own lips against Saihara’s. The kiss was short, little more than a peck, but as he pulled away Saihara’s expression was something to behold. A million emotions seemed to flow through his features at once. Ouma gave a small laugh, setting his feet back firmly on the ground. 

“It was my turn to surprise you,” he casually explained, turning tail and darting off in the direction of his school. Glancing back, he saw Saihara unmoving, fingertips tracing his mouth. How gross. 

 

There had been no question that they would meet again on Friday for the next episode, tension now aside. Saihara had texted him that seeing him for breakfast had been fun, that they should do it again. His intent was painfully obvious, but Ouma chose to take it as an open offer to provide more meals. An offer that he would undoubtedly utilize. 

He didn’t feel bad being selfish to Saihara, not that the other boy seemed to notice. After all, he was going to get plenty in return. It was only fair, really. 

 

“Who was your favorite character from the original?” the dark-haired boy had enthusiastically asked during their train ride. He had no shame in discussing the show in public, paid no heed to the sideways glances full of judgmental hatred. The ‘original’ he referred to meant the Danganronpa base material – the original games and shows before it became a type of reality TV. He gave a thoughtful hum, though he knew his favorite immediately he wanted to show more thought to Saihara. 

“Celestia Ludenberg was pretty interesting,” he debated, drawing out his words as if still thinking, “but my favourite would definitely be Junko Enoshima,” he ‘finally’ decided with a nod of assurance. Saihara’s eyes widened in surprise, who would expect someone as invisible as him to be into a full-on character like that? 

“I didn’t expect you’d be into the mastermind characters,” he breathed, excited, as Ouma waved a hand to interrupt him, shaking his head. 

“Not the mastermind characters, just the first one,” he corrected. At Saihara’s unusual silence he elaborated. “It was interesting in the first game – the twist, the characterization, the reveals, everything. It felt kind of shoehorned and repetitive in two, though they had reasons for her to show up again it definitely didn’t have the same appeal. Mastermind characters since have all kind of played on the same themes too, nothing really as revolutionary has come since,” he explained as if it were obvious, Saihara intensely gripped on every word. 

“I get it,” he nodded eagerly, “the character was a lot cooler in the first one, then lost its appeal over time. Masterminds have since tended to be less interesting than the rest of the cast.” At least they could agree on something. 

“Who’s yours?" Ouma asked back politely, he already knew the answer. 

“Kyoko Kirigiri,” he spoke without hesitation, surprising no one. 

 

“How do you know Momota?” Ouma piped up once they had settled on the tiny sofa, there was some time before the episode began, they had made the earlier train this week. 

“We knew each since we were little, we went to the same schools, but when we went to middle school was when we became friends,” Saihara began to explain. 

Their relationship had made no sense to Ouma, the tough guy bully being besties with some obsessive Danganronpa fanboy, something didn’t add up. They had acted more like acquaintances than friends when Ouma had been introduced to Saihara, but the deal Momota had struck with him made it seem like they were very close. 

“What changed in middle school?” 

“Well, I guess I was kind of clingy,” he admitted in a low voice, “he was the only person I knew at all when we started so I-I got really nervous whenever he wasn’t around.” Saihara’s eyes were locked to the hands in his lap, some of that middle school anxiety returning while recounting. “He didn’t really like it, he didn’t want to hang around with me even though I didn’t want to leave him alone.” It sounded embarrassing, to have a loser like him all over you when trying to make a new reputation. No wonder he turned to violence for status. 

“He changed his mind though?” Ouma spoke to show interest and prod for the story to continue. 

“W-well,” suddenly the eyes were moving around the room, “something happened.” He looked nervous, he was hiding something? Ouma kept his curious bright eyes fixated on the other, a slight head tilt creating a look that he was certain Saihara wouldn’t be able to resist spilling to. Their eyes met, Saihara looking more and more flustered, skin glistening with an uncomfortable sweat. 

“I guess I can tell you, you’ll keep it a secret, right?” the words tumbled clumsily from his lips. 

“Of course,” Ouma beamed back, “I’m great at keeping secrets!” 

“O-okay,” the other stuttered, still uncertain, but trusting. He really didn’t have anyone else but Momota and now him, huh? “Momota-kun got in a fight late one night with an upperclassman. He killed him.” 

“He killed him?” Ouma exclaimed in return, Saihara’s face visually controting showing his panic. Ouma himself was taken aback, a coward like Momota had actually killed someone? An upperclassman at that? He really hadn’t expected the petty, vain boy to be capable of that. 

“I-it was an accident!” Saihara defended, hands raised and body turned to Ouma, “he didn’t mean to.” Their conversation calmed as Ouma settled deeper into the furniture, appearing less shocked and less like he could run out at any moment. “A-anyway, he called me after it happened and helped him. T-told him to try and hide the body somewhere near so that it wouldn't be found right away. No one knew they had planned to fight, and Momota-kun took his phone to make sure he hadn’t told anyone, so when the body was found there was no one to blame. We burned the phone to get rid of the evidence. I told him to stay at my house for that night, let him hide out here until he knew it was fine to leave again. After that we were friends, he didn’t try to shake me off anymore and we hung out more,” he finished his story with a small smile, as if the whole experience had been heartwarming. 

In reality Momota was likely only his friend to keep him from talking. He had to keep Saihara on side, otherwise he had some serious dirt. Saihara had such an upper hand and really didn’t realize the difference it made. Momota had been sly on his side too though, it’s not easy to ‘accidentally’ beat someone to death. And who else would help him hide his murder than some weird clingy guy with a Danganronpa fetish? Someone who could be appeased with the mere offer of friendship. Well played. 

“Nothing like hiding a body to bond,” Ouma grinned, humor in his light tone to diffuse Saihara’s fear and widen his smile. 

“Maybe we should try it,” he jokingly responded, picking up the remote to change the channel. Ouma wondered how much of a joke it really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! A little later in the day than normal but still made it. 
> 
> Are Fridays a good update day, or would anyone prefer a different day?


	4. Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's episode features a bland trial and execution as expected of episode 2, setting the scene. Ouma gets to see how much Saihara enjoys these episodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have added a dub-con tag to be safe, just to cover situations where consent isn't explicitly given and they're not necessarily loving what's going on. There are no actual non-con situations planned, but please let me know if you think I should add certain tags as things come up.

The trial wasn’t particularly interesting or exciting. The first trial rarely was anymore, each time it was almost like a tutorial. There would be a really obvious suspect who, of course, it would never be, then the real killer would be found by the 1 piece of evidence that didn’t fit in with everything else and very clearly isolated one person. All the same he congratulated Saihara on his successful ‘deductions’ as if he had no clue the entire time. Everyone liked to think they were the best, right? 

Then came the execution, Saihara sat forward on his seat, completely focused on the screen. As the execution took place in front of them Ouma flicked his gaze between the gruesome scene and the TV. In his opinion watching Saihara become unraveled at the slow, excruciating torture being aired was far more nauseating than any gore could be. 

The ending credits rolled and Saihara turned his reddened, sweat drenched face to Ouma, some sort of excitement playing across his features. Ouma gritted his teeth behind his lips, he wouldn’t flinch this time, regardless of the other’s general grossness. Saihara leaned in close without a word, lips meeting with a testing softness. 

Ouma closed his eyes quickly, not wishing to see that face so close, surprised by how gentle Saihara was being, having been expecting something clumsier and more desperate. He felt Saihara’s lips open, deepening the kiss first, feeling his own still closed mouth become wet with the other’s saliva, worsened by Saihara’s probing tongue brushing against it in hopes of entry. Feeling Saihara’s body shift around sofa, presumably getting into a more comfortable position around the smaller boy, he gave in and parted his own lips, a tongue immediately darting into the new space curiously. Hands came to rest against his waist, pressure increasing against his face. The intruding tongue poked around the inside of his mouth, soft and warm, rubbing against his teeth and the roof of his mouth. It felt alien, and it almost made him squirm with disgust. He brushed his own tongue against the new one, hoping to bring its attention away from the walls of his mouth, not appreciating the texture of tongue on tongue much more. 

Saihara finally moved away first, breaking their kiss for air. Ouma resisted the urge to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, unable to shake the thought of someone else’s spit on his skin. Saihara’s hungry eyes scanned his petite body up and down, creepiness accentuated by his deep red face, panting breaths and oily, dangling hair. Nothing like watching someone die to get the blood pumping, huh? 

“It’s okay, right?” Saiahra quietly asked, likely looking for permission to continue. 

Ouma just gave a hum of agreement and a single nod, Saihara taking the invitation to resume the kissing. Ouma hesitantly circled his arms around Saihara’s neck while Saihara’s hands run up and down his sides. It was almost a nice sensation. Almost. Saihara’s fingers moved to the top clasp of Ouma’s school jacket, fumbling with it in his attempt to remove the item. The repeated failures were annoying. 

Ouma broke the kiss, catching bashful murky eyes, and pushed his hand away from the clasp, undoing them himself. Once the jacket was out of the way their mouths once again merged, Saihara pushing his clammy hands underneath Ouma’s shirt. How far was he willing to take this? Should he just let Saihara do whatever he wanted? What should he save for another occasion? Questions flooded his mind, scenarios and possibilities presenting themselves behind his eyelids. 

Their lips broke apart again, and Saihara’s mouth moved to Ouma’s slender neck, pressing his wet lips against sensitive skin. His shoulder twitched at the contact, surprisingly ticklish and surprisingly pleasant. He decided to voice that this sensation was enjoyable, win-win. Saihara’s neck kisses became open mouthed, his tongue resting and slowly sliding against the skin between his lips, Ouma gave a subtle moan from the back of his throat, not a loud sound, just one to let Saihara know not to stop. It seemed to work as the kisses became harder, sucking at the skin to leave blotchy pink marks, teeth beginning to press in. The marks weren’t a problem, his uniform was high-necked so Saihara could go crazy, it wasn’t like anyone would see it. 

After a few nips Saihara raised his head, pleased with himself, but his grin grew as he reached for the remote switching the blank screen to pause on a scene from the execution. Saws and blades stuck in the skin of the killer, mutilating and tearing his body asunder. The execution had been particularly graphic, perhaps that was the theme of this season? Grotesque deaths for the fans to jerk off to? Such a disgusting breed. 

Saihara pressed his mouth back against Ouma’s, tongues once again twisting and dancing against each other amidst the fleshy walls of his mouth. Ouma flicked his eyes open, detecting a distraction in Saihara’s suddenly slow movements. As he had thought, Saihara’s own eyes had been drawn to the TV. Clearly the other was not interested in looking at him, he just wanted bodily pleasures in the presence of his true love. The corner of Ouma’s mouth twitched with annoyance, the other not seeming to notice, so enamored with the gore on screen. He bared his teeth as Saihara withdrew his tongue, biting down on his bottom lip as they parted, holding the skin between his top teeth and own bottom lip, brilliant eyes staring up at the other, innocent and wide. That brought his attention back as his lip was released, wet and swollen. 

Saihara shifted his position, pressing his entire body against Ouma’s petite frame. He could feel Saihara’s hardness against his thigh, as he brought his mouth back to an already bruised neck, licking at the skin and rolling his hips against the smaller boy. Still those wandering eyes were drawn back to the screen, the movements in his lower body increasing in pace, small entranced grunts vibrating against Ouma’s neck. Ouma could do little other than sit and just let Saihara rut against him, the weight against him preventing much movement other than stiff, uncomfortable wiggles that seemed to only aid the other. 

He hated it. 

If Saihara was going to use him to get off, he could at least look at him. 

He could at least focus on him. 

He could at least look. At. Him. 

 

Saihara’s final gasp resounded in his ears as the movements came to a stuttering halt, teeth indenting on pale skin, heat radiating through his body. His damp hands clutched the smaller boy’s skin and clothes, grip loosening as his breathing began to even out. He certainly seemed to have enjoyed himself. Danganronpa and a live human to rub up against, what could be better? Ouma was sure his face reflected his disgruntled mind. 

“Ah,” Saihara spoke up, voice cracking from not being used for words for a while, “should I? Are you?” his mumbled unfinished questions only irritated Ouma further. He could roughly work out what he was trying to insinuate as he kept his head low. 

“I’m fine,” Ouma spat back, his sharp tone catching Saihara by surprise. 

“Are you sure? You don’t need to me to,” he trailed off, pushing himself up and away from his guest. 

“I’m fine," Ouma repeated, brushing the creases from his clothes and redoing the clasps of his jacket. 

“Okay,” Saihara sounded resigned, disappointed maybe? Probably. Disappointed from Ouma not being as het up as he was from all this. He looked once more to the screen that had captured the other’s interest more than he himself had. Was he bitter that a static image had stolen the attention of this pathetic, disgusting freak from him? Apparently so. 

“You like this?” Ouma pointed towards the screen, tone softened from before. 

“The execution?” Saihara clarified, shifting himself back to a normal seated position, less looming. “Yeah, this execution was really good. It had more screen time than most executions, hopefully they keep it like that, the executions are one of my favourite bits.” His eyes shone with the thrill of it, hands tangling together restlessly as he spoke. “This one seemed like anguish. He was tortured for so long before he finally died. Not just scared of what was to come, a lot of the executions draw out that suspense, but instead he spent so much time in pain. All those knives and saws and everything, there were so many cuts and stuff. It’s like they went up to a higher rating for this season, even though the rating is always the same.” The explanation came breathlessly, face holding the same heat as before as the words fell from his lips with unabated adoration. 

Ouma understood though, it was as he said. This execution focused so much on the torture and suffering of this blackened instead of just building it up and offing them in a single movement. Perhaps the producers finally realized that their fanbase really were a bunch of sick fucks. 

“Yeah,” Ouma agreed in a small voice, “it was pretty awesome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting a little spicier, it only gets warmer from here! Please let me know your thoughts!


	5. Invite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Continue where we left off maybe?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 100 kudos hype! Thank you everyone who did leave a kudos on this fic, it's been really exciting watching it rise to that milestone!

Silently sitting on the uncarpeted floor of his bedroom, the screeches that had echoed through his ears had finally died down so he leaned back against his thin wall and thought. He wondered if his family would hate him even more if they found out that he was getting somewhat intimately involved with a boy. He wondered if they even could think less of him. They had never mentioned his new bruises when he used to come home after being found by Momota, they also hadn’t noticed the lack of new bruises. Only the ones they were aware of remained across his body, other than the marks around his neck made by Saihara. They were his secret. 

The sharp twang of hunger rocked him from his thoughts. Another breakfast date with Saihara it is. Their last meeting had been humiliating, so he deserved it. 

 

“Ouma-kun,” a deep, smooth voice rang out in the bustling hallway. He knew the voice, but he wasn’t used it being directed towards him. Spinning on his heels he came face to face with Rantaro Amami, a boy in his year but difficult to approach, not due to his personality by any stretch, but due to the fact that he was always surrounded by people, ever popular. Ouma had noticed him before, Amami was pretty hard not to notice, but never had the notion that they were even acquaintances, so this sudden conversation was startling, evident in Ouma’s face. 

“Y-yes?” his voice trembled in surprise. Amami’s face softened as he gave a small, comforting smile. Ouma felt the heat rising to his face, feeling the eyes of his peers on him. They were probably thinking things like 'since when were they friends?’ and ‘Amami’s talking to him?’. Ouma wracked his brain to work out what about him was worth bringing up, what could Amami be pitying about him to speak to him? He wasn’t sporting obvious injuries, he had been coming to school every day, he’d even eaten that morning! It hadn’t been an eventful breakfast, just weird small talk, some Danganronpa rambling and a quick kiss goodbye. It had felt so prudent after their previous encounter. 

“Just checking you’re alright,” he calmly explained, gesturing loosely, ornate rings catching the light as he moved. “You weren’t in this morning, same thing happened last week.” Ah, that made some sense. 

“I’m fine,” he quickly dismissed, hastily arguing with himself as to whether he needed to give a reason or not. Amami picked up on his hesitation almost before Ouma himself did. 

“That’s good,” he seemed...relieved? Had Ouma been some sort of cause of concern for him? His classmates would probably detest him more if they knew that. “Well, make sure you take care of yourself. You seem like the kind of guy that needs reminding,” he laughed, the sound was light and musical. The boy was genuinely pretty, and seemed kind and polite to people around him. A real delight. People like that were rare, no, not just rare, someone like him didn’t exist, at least not without some sort of drawback. What was wrong with Amami? Ouma become more and more curious the longer his eyes watched the other. 

“Oh, thanks,” he quietly spoke, unable to think of any other response. Someone worrying about him was a new one, he wasn’t sure how react at all really. Amami gave him a wave as he strolled away, leaving Ouma watching his back as he vanished from view. 

 

Ouma had caught himself thinking about that encounter over and over, working himself to paranoia in his attempt to understand it. His eyes swung side to side as he went about his day, prepared for his classmates to act against him, or at least question him. No one approached him, no one even acted differently around him. Perhaps this too was part of their plan? He had to wonder at what point he was overthinking it. 

Amami had just seen him miss morning classes, and was concerned. A guy he’d never spoken to before. Concerned. It made no sense however he spun it. As much as he wanted closure, like hell was he going to approach the charismatic boy to ask. Definitely out of the question. Walking up to a guy like that and just making conversation, sure maybe people could forgive Amami calling him and talking, but they certainly would not forgive an interaction the other way around. Out of the question. 

 

He focused on busying himself with alternate thoughts, thoughts on far less socially adept individuals with whom he could meet with, upsetting no one. Flipping his phone open, keeping the device close to his body attempting not to draw attention to his choice of decoration, he checked the text he’d received from Saihara after their morning together. 

“How about you come over to mine tomorrow? There’s no Danganronpa episode, but we could do something else? Continue where we left off maybe?” 

The trepidation in the text made a clear insinuation of what he wanted. ‘Continue where we left off’ what a joke. He wanted to go further, despite Ouma’s clear lack of enjoyment of their previous experience. It wasn’t even commanding, it was just a cowardly way to bring up the suggestion, and Ouma hated cowards like that. He could imagine Saihara’s crimson face creating that message, screen shaking as he tapped with trembling fingers, mistyping and correcting before hitting send as soon as the message was complete. Too anxious to stare at the finished text and consider what he was asking. Though, despite his feeling of distaste, his response had been sent so quickly. 

“Sure, same place as always?” 

 

Just as clockwork, the school day ended and Ouma found Saihara waiting by the entrance to the alley, the only difference was that this clock was fast. Wednesday night instead of Friday, no that wasn’t right, Wednesday night in addition to Friday. As if seeing him again would get him out of Danganronpa night. He wasn’t even really sure he would want it to. At least Saihara would feed him. 

The pair found themselves sat side by side on the sofa once more, Ouma began to wonder if he would ever see anything more of the other’s house outside of a rough tour. The rambling had ended as they’d entered the building, giving way to a thick awkward tension, both knowing the reason behind this visit but neither willing to act first. Much to Ouma’s chagrin the soft light of the television had filled the room. Clearly it was far too much for him to hope that seeing Saihara on another night would make any difference. No new episode, so they would make do with a highlight reel of the most depraved moments thus far. Great, blood and tears and screams on loop. It would get old quickly too, only 2 people had died so far, not a lot had happened really. Oh, his eyes widened a little as he noticed the playlist, not just the one video on loop as it turned out, various highlight reels of what Ouma assumed were his favourite seasons. Even better. 

“Really?” he finally voiced, giving a sideways glance to the other boy while attempting to keep the extent of his contempt from his face. Saihara simply looked surprised, innocently surprised. 

“Don’t I have one from your favourite season?” Ouma wanted to shout at the idiotic question. Was this really going to set the mood? He could see there had been no confusion, if the poorly hidden bottle of lube sitting behind the cushion on Saihara’s side was anything to go by. Was he hoping for a repeat of last time? What was wrong with him? 

“Add season 29,” was his final answer. All the incredulous accusations were unneeded, he knew what Saihara’s deal was by this point. Clearly the kids killing each other gave him a boner that human contact could not replicate. Whatever. 

A few gleeful clicks and the request was fulfilled, the playlist started, and Saihara’s face was inches from Ouma’s. Their lips met to the sounds of stifled sobs, tongues intertwined as a murderer was sentenced to death. It was sick, but that’s how it had to be. Screams filled the room as Ouma’s uniform jacket was removed, far more swiftly than the last time, and Saihara’s lips met with the neck bruises he had inflicted before. His head turned as Saihara’s tongue lapped against his skin, shining purple eyes meeting with pools of red. A warm hand pressed against his chest under his shirt as the victim sputtered his final breath. A celebration of life combined with broadcasting the dead. 

 

Saihara’s determination as a lusty teenager made for quick work of removing his own jacket, shirt and tie, revealing the lanky torso beneath. There were no surprises hiding under those clothes, simply untoned, underused muscles and skin tightly weaved over his bones. Ouma reached a pale hand out to trace the curve of his ribcage, thin skin beneath his fingertips. Saihara was the only human being he could think of that he was able to reach out and touch. The only person who wasn’t reaching out to strike him, but rather to feel him in return. For once Ouma wondered if he meant the next kiss that graced his lips, something softer, even if only for a moment. 

Ouma’s shirt was next to be removed during the heat of their kiss, hands able to glide and grope against the pallid flesh. He almost wanted to draw Saihara’s lips back to his as they parted, keep his attention away from his body, keep the pity out of his eyes. Unlike Saihara’s, Ouma’s skin clung to his bones, allowing them to protrude in contrast to his slightly concave stomach. Eyeing himself steadily he could already see his hip bones standing out just where his trousers began. He kept his own face pointed away from Saihara’s, not wanting to see his expression upon first meeting with this thin, broken sight. His body a canvas painted with pain. 

Surprise jolted through the smaller boy as a damp warmth pressed against the center of his collarbone, gently lifting and moving down the middle of his chest. Soft, somewhat caring kisses from a mouth already coated in saliva caressed his battered body. A feeling more unfamiliar than any other. A scream breaking through the speakers brought him back from his borderline sentimental thoughts. Right. This was the kind of person Saihara was. He could be as caring as he liked, he had still invited Ouma with the intention of sex, setting the mood with background violence. He mentally reminded himself not to let that slip his mind, Saihara was far from any kind of angel. He was just as awful as everyone else. 

While Saihara‘s tongue dipped into the divots between his ribs, it was time for the trousers to come off. Like before, Saihara started with his own, leaving him in only his plain black briefs. Ouma was a little surprised that he didn’t wear some sort of merchandise underwear, since it got him so worked up it would have made sense. Though at least this added a little more normality to the situation. His were next, he lifted his hips to assist Saihara’s actions in removing the item, leaving them both in their underwear. Ouma’s own choice wasn’t far more daring than Saihara’s, a black and white pattern akin to static across the fabric. Saihara had positioned himself above Ouma, hands plunged into the sofa above his shoulders. His hair hung limply, poorly framing his flushed, sweaty face as intense eyes drank in the form below him. 

His cheeks flushed brighter as his eyes glanced lower. Ouma could only guess that it was because Saihara was sporting a full erection through his underwear, while the boy beneath merely sat at half-mast. Maybe he was wondering what he had done wrong. 

 

“I-is it okay if,” Saihara spoke for the first time in a while, words shaky through his uncertain breathing, “if these come off too?” it almost looked like it physically pained him to ask something so embarrassing out loud. Ouma just nodded, a series of short sharp movements, giving Saihara the permission to continue. As his final piece of clothing was removed, he couldn’t help but catch sight of the TV, his thoughts echoed that Saihara was sweet enough to ask for permission, while his eyes echoed the sight of charring bodies. He had forgotten that season 47 had ended in a ‘blaze of glory’, though it was more like watching the flames of defeat now. Like many others, they thought they could put an end to the killing games by all going out together as one, the fools. 

He squeaked in surprise as Saihara’s hot, sticky hand grabbed at the cheek of his butt. Flinching to the sudden sensation he inadvertently parted his legs, letting Saihara take a more comfortable position between them. Ouma felt his own face heat up almost unbearably as his other hand stroked down the outside of his thigh. That hand was removed in favor of grabbing the small bottle from behind the cushion. He gave the bottle a quick shake, as if showing Ouma what it was, the liquid within sloshing quietly. 

“I’ll, um, I’ll put in on my fingers first,” he almost sounded slightly confident, “right?” and there it goes. 

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Ouma encouraged, he certainly did not want Saihara just going for it right away. He was really going to do this then? Just have sex with some weird guy he barely knew? Was it because he would sometimes buy breakfast? Was it because of Momota’s threat? What the hell was he doing? 

The clear liquid spread across his fingers quickly, it seemed to have a very light texture. His hand reached down, but Ouma kept his eyes up, kept his focus on Saihara’s upper half as opposed to whatever was going on down there. He jumped at the feeling of the cold, wet fingertip at his tight entrance. Despite the clenching of muscles, Saihara powered on through, pushing his middle finger into the smaller boy’s body slowly, top teeth biting into his lower lip in concentration. Ouma lifted his hands to his face, it was such a bizarre feeling, he didn’t want to be seen. He was almost glad for the background noise, as gruesome as it may have been, since it covered up at least some of the uncomfortable wet sounds of Saihara’s lubricated finger pushing in and out of him. 

The second finger joined the mix soon after, possibly too soon. He wiggled his hips a bit to try make the feeling more comfortable. It wasn’t hurting, but it wasn’t his favourite either. That was at least until Saihara made a come-hither motion with his middle finger inside of Ouma, striking a spot that made him not want this to stop. He made a sort of half grunt, half whimpering noise, and rocked his hips in the hope of getting Saihara’s finger to brush that spot again. His hips shifted in response to Saihara’s movements, it almost felt primal. The fingers were retracted from his body, Ouma parted his own fingers to see the other’s almost smug face. Or, maybe it wasn’t smug? Maybe he was actually just smiling? Was that how he looked when he was happy? 

“You seemed to enjoy that,” his voice was low and desperate, hands reaching back to the bottle. 

“Y-yeah,” it was his turn to be a breathless, stuttering mess now, “I didn’t expect it to f-feel like that,” he tried to explain, almost ashamed of his own uncontrolled actions. He could feel the high temperature of his face against the palms of his hands. His eyes travelled downwards, now both he and Saihara were completely hard, though Saihara’s looked strained, beads of pre-cum built at his tip. More lube was added to his hands as he reached down to his own cock, lathering it in fluid with more disgusting squelching noises. The pre-cum mixed with the lube spread across his skin. If he was lubing up like that then it meant he was not planning on putting anything over the top of it. Ouma internally debated whether he was okay with that. Saihara was clearly a virgin, so he wouldn’t catch anything off of him, right? So then, it would be okay, right? 

 

Wet hands framed Ouma’s hips as Saihara brought himself closer, his face hovering far above. Ouma kept his legs parted as best he could on the small sofa, really not the best place to be doing this, but this is how it was going to happen. He was going to lose his virginity to this murder mega-fan freak on his tiny cramped sofa that he would usually use for jerking off to televised snuff. 

“A-are you ready?” more checking, he guessed Saihara wanted him to have a good time too. 

“Yeah,” he affirmed, feeling the wettened tip of his cock brush clumsily against him. Swing and a miss. Hands fully returned to his face, not wanting to witness this poor showing. After a few failed attempts, and just as Ouma felt like he couldn’t take the second-hand embarrassment a moment longer, Saihara finally made the executive decision to remove one of his hands from Ouma’s hip and use it to guide himself in. 

Ouma took in a sharp breath as the tip pressed into him, letting his legs that were previously splayed at awkward angles, wrap around Saihara as he pushed himself further in. Ouma choked back any sounds that threatened to spill from his throat. The cock pushing into him felt so hot and so much bigger than his fingers, felt much bigger than it looked. He was infinitely grateful for the copious amount of lube Saihara had opted to coat himself in because he was pushing on far too quickly. He heard the other let out a deep huff once he had entered completely, a dull pain radiating throughout Ouma’s body. It was impressive how uncomfortable the sensation was. 

A tug on his hand broke him out of his own world, letting the hand be pulled from his face. The other followed shortly after. Saihara wasn’t moving, the weight of the other boy surrounded him. Their lips met once more, open mouthed and graceless, Saihara’s face heavy against Ouma’s. Saihara’s hips started to move, slowly pulling back and pushing back in, settling there for a time, before pulling back again. It didn’t bother Ouma in that moment that his mouth was probably mostly covered with Saihara’s saliva. The pain began to numb and subside, giving way to the feeling of Saihara’s hot skin against his own. The scent of their mixed sweat filled their noses, hair sticking to faces as they finally parted for air, strings of spit continuing to connect the pair. 

Saihara’s face was a picture, Ouma secretly wondered what his own was like, hands twitching in Saihara’s loose grip, wanting to cover it again. The expression of lust, red faced and desperate, the expression on the other’s face caused by Ouma, he wanted to keep that face in his head. Ouma’s own breathing increased in speed and volume along with Saihara’s motions, his thrusts becoming more rhythmic. He braved it to look down, to see Saihara moving, seeing his cock pull back and disappear into him. The feeling of him pumping into his body wasn’t quite pleasurable as such, but it wasn’t a bad feeling either. It was definitely bringing Saihara pleasure. It just felt intimate, he supposed. This is how it felt when two bodies joined in a display of love. Love? Now that was ridiculous. It was a display of lust, and nothing more. 

One of his hands was released from its light hold, Saihara’s damp hand moving down to touch Ouma. His hand formed a fist around his neglected dick, stroking it in a similar pattern to his thrusts. Ouma shut his eyes tight, it felt good but with all these feelings he didn’t want an audience. He decided he would be a little selfish, Saihara always was after all. He tightened his legs around the slender body of his lover and began to motion his own hips, attempting to match a pattern like Saihara’s. Finally, his cock struck that point within him that could make him writhe and moan, not that he would. He would allow himself to pant though, letting his hips almost wildly rock as Saihara upped his own pace, loud huffing above him. He reached out his one free hand to wrap around the back of Saihara’s neck, feeling his warmth so close to him. 

Saihara let out a grunt, his hips jerking erratically as he rode out his climax inside of Ouma, and a few strokes later Ouma followed, cum spilling out across their stomachs. Ouma opened his eyes, letting his breath catch back up with him, wanting to see Saihara’s spent expression next. Instead he was greeted with the sight of the other’s ear, his head turned taking in the dramatic moment that played out, cries and wails that tore through the throats of those on screen. In their passion Ouma had tuned out the events that had been unfolding on the TV, but it appeared the same had not been true for the other. When had his attention shifted? When he closed his eyes? He didn’t want to see Saihara looking at him, it didn’t mean he wanted Saihara looking at someone else. He felt his teeth grind behind his lips. 

“That was amazing,” he had the audacity to sigh, raising himself away from the smaller boy and separating their bodies. Ouma felt hollow as he pulled out, a stomach-turning feeling of Saihara’s cooling seed seeping out of him. Saihara offered him a hand up from the sofa, suggesting that they should go clean up before doing anything else. Ouma looked up at his bright, smiling face with narrowed eyes, his damp hair stuck to the sides of his face, nostrils filled the stench of sweat and sex. 

 

It was sickening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Smut! And a little taste of Amami. It was fun to write Ouma's conflicting thoughts in this one, please let me know what you thought!


	6. Lull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Down time is important too"

He looked his body up and down, he was almost inhumanly pale, as unpleasantly thin as ever, skin punctuated with dark marks, around the ribs especially. His scowling eyes took in the fresh bruising dotted around his neck and shoulders. Before the marks from Saihara were somehow appealing, like a secret, and he wished for no end to them. Now as he looked upon the new darkened blotches, he felt nothing but frustration and annoyance. He had thought that by going further with him, by having sex with him, that he would capture Saihara’s interest. 

It was strange. Saihara had seemed so enamoured by him, and in fact each time they met he appeared to be interested in Ouma, yet when they moved to romantic and sexual actions that interest waned. Each time he would rather pay attention to Danganronpa then to the boy pretending to reciprocate his feelings. Saihara certainly was fooled, at least, he didn’t act as if he knew it was forced. 

Sometimes Ouma wondered himself how forced it truly was. He definitely didn’t need to go as far as he had, there were plenty of things he could have gotten away with not doing. There were some things he had wanted to do, wanted to feel. He shook himself free of those thoughts, loosely poking at the bruises reminding himself of the awful feelings the other boy had caused. Someone who really cared at all about him wouldn’t have made him feel that way. Used and disregarded. Looking at him after with such a bright smile and an outstretched hand as if he had done nothing wrong. 

He will pay. 

“Danganronpa tomorrow?” the text was a question, though the answer was assured. Ouma wasn’t quite sure why Saihara had messaged him really, he already knew what he’d say. Maybe he just wanted to talk? Maybe Saihara was thinking about him? Of course he would be, he lived a little lonely life with two whole friends in the world and a TV show obsession, he had little else to think about. His fingers slowly hovered over the keys, the response automatic. 

“Yep,” and off it went. The conversation would normally have ended there, but it seemed the other had different ideas. 

“How’s your day?” That was new. Did he actually care or was he just bored? Afterall Ouma was his little plaything, there purely for his benefit. 

“Lame as usual, yours?” He really didn’t care about the response, but he should seem like he did. As bitter as he may feel towards Saihara, he couldn’t lose his relationship with the boy. If nothing else, spending time with Saihara was at least a little interesting, and sometimes good things happened, even if it was only for moments. Good moments were few and far between. Despite how things were, it was probably better than Momota’s beatings. Probably. 

He continued to message Saihara throughout the day, just meaningless small talk really but at least it had the illusion of someone giving a shit about him, so that was something. Though he found his attention divided. While his fingers tapped out polite, casual messages his eyes darted towards his green haired upperclassman. He was easy to catch sight of in the halls and cafeteria. He was tall and stood out among the crowds that he drew. Ouma’s mind continuously wandered back to the question of why he had spoken to him. It was baffling to the petite boy, and the more he thought about it the more frustrated he grew. What was he after? Well, if he wanted something then that wouldn’t be the last time they spoke, right? He was just impatient. 

 

Another Friday rolled around, walking towards Saihara felt far too familiar. It felt like barely any time had passed since he’d last seen that face. The red, sweating mess affixed to the television. Smiling widely, a face he may have never shown anyone else before him. Faces told all too much, and so faces could trick like nothing else. It was difficult not to let emotions show as they boiled away inside, he wished he could bury those things down and hide it all with a face unmoving. Maybe if he could do that, he wouldn’t be the disappointing outcast he had become. 

During their journey it felt like they were having the same conversations over and over again. Theory crafting, favourites, predictions, nothing changed. The only differences were that they stood closer, and Saihara smiled more. He looked enraptured by every word Ouma decided to share with him. A lie that would fall apart as soon as that screen flicked on. But this time Ouma had ideas. Ideas on how to be Saihara’s sole focus. 

They found their places on the usual sofa, the TV switched on pre-emptively ready for the start of the show. Snacks demanded and laid out, volume turned up to drown out all crunching. Undivided attention on the TV once the opening theme sounded. 

The group on the other side of the screen were all fussing about the killing game being real, the shock that a killing and execution really happened and promising that nothing like that would happen again. Same old, same old. Of course it would happen again, otherwise it would be a pretty huge disappointment for fans all over. Naturally after some character building, comedy moments and exploration of the new areas in their classic school setting, a new motive was introduced to provide the cliff-hanger for the episode. 

“Ugh, it’s Monokuma, here to screw us over yet again!” the tough guy type groaned, lulling his head back dramatically, hands jammed in his pockets. 

“Is it a motive?” the tall, shy girl asked hesitantly, quivering as she spoke, eyes constantly shifted downwards. 

“It doesn’t matter what you tell us to do Monokuma, no one else is going to die!” the protagonist proclaimed, standing forward from the crowd with a clenched fist. They were all just so generic. Another batch of bland, lovable characters. 

“That’s kind of what I’m relying on actually,” Monokuma’s high pitched, tinny voice echoed out to the students who stood silently, uncertain of his words. “It’s just such a shame when one of my students goes and dies you see, they still had so much left to give!” he whined, wiping at unseen tears, sobbing into his paws. Then all at once he recovered, “that’s why this time the motive isn’t a motive to kill, it’s motive to live.” 

Silence hung in the air around the robotic bear. No one knew what to say, no one knew what it meant. The audience at home sat in the same silence, knowing it would still somehow result in a killing but curiosity overwhelming. 

“What’s your game Monokuma?” the protagonist finally broke the silence across the nation, voice low and untrusting. 

“Aww, don’t be like that! I’m trying to help you!” the bear protested, before clearing his throat and standing up straight. “If no one dies in the next 48 hours, you all get to graduate!” The announcement hit another stiff quiet. 

“R-really?” the ultimate ??? stuttered, the short girl shuffling out from behind her brother, the well-built ultimate salesman. Despite his talent, he was the quietest of the group. 

“Wait, but that means we all get to leave right? Sweet deal,” the tough guy bellowed, the most talkative of the group, the ultimate race car driver – not that he had any interest in official racing. 

“You got it! Just don’t kill anyone and you all get to go home! Even an idiot could do that!” Monokuma joked, finally taking his leave, the group still motionless in shock. 

“We all,” the protagonist whispered, glancing around his classmates, “we all get to leave?” 

“There’s got to be a catch,” a stoic woman murmured mostly to herself, she had been the one helping the protagonist through the previous case. The camera panned across their faces as they left their gathering, finishing on a sharp glare from that same woman towards the tall, shy girl, the ultimate botanist. 

 

“That’s quite the motive,” Saihara whispered mostly to himself in awe. 

“Well, it’s chapter 2 so we need a serial killer to show up,” Ouma stretched as he spoke, the repetition grew tiresome. 

“How do you think the next killing will happen?” usually Saihara would just start ranting about his own thoughts, but for once he was stopping to ask Ouma first. He almost couldn’t respond, having been so unprepared for the question. 

“Maybe the serial killer will kill someone just for the sake of continuing the killing game? Knowing they’ll be executed and all, they just want the game to result in a higher body count so ending it early is bad for them?” Ouma phrased his theory as a question, eyes raised high in thought. 

“That’s pretty good,” Saihara hummed thoughtfully, “I think the botanist will be the next killer, that look at the end definitely meant that,” he nodded confidently. Ouma wanted to say that it seemed way too predictable after that camera shot, but kept quiet. Shooting down Saihara’s predictions would probably upset him. Besides, his theory would probably change several times before the next episode, and Ouma would nod along with all of them. 

“The episode was kind of boring though,” Ouma finally sighed, slumping back in the sofa. The motive was really the only exciting thing. Who cared about any of these people, they were only characters designed specifically to die. There was no point getting attached to them, yet that’s exactly what the masses did. 

“Yeah, it’d be nice if there was a killing in every episode, but the down time is important too. Besides, we found out all about Hana-chan and Kizan-kun!” Saihara excitedly remembered, turning to completely face Ouma. He hated the way Saihara would use honorifics for the characters on the show. People like them, horrible people, didn’t deserve titles of any kind. Hana was the ultimate ???, insisting that others call her by her first name, while her brother was called Kizan, using their shared family name. 

“Something’s definitely going to happen with them for the next killing,” Ouma mused, Saihara frantically nodding. It was different this time, Saihara wasn’t nearly as het up or flushed as he normally was after an episode. Not a lot had happened on the debut episode, but Saihara had still been ‘excited’ after that one, but this time he just seemed interested in talking about it but not even in a frenzy like usual. Maybe the episode really had been that boring but Saihara would never admit to anything negative about Danganronpa? 

 

They continued to discuss the episode in a differently calm atmosphere, each taking turns to speak until they had gone through about every moment of the episode, the snack pile diminishing to nothing. At Saihara’s door they had shared a small peck on the lips along with their goodbyes. 

Ouma was baffled. Saihara had been so strange this time around, nothing like Saihara had ever been with him. He had been waiting the whole evening for Saihara to pounce on him, but nothing had happened. He was almost disappointed. He wasn’t sure how he could possibly feel that way when their intimacy had led to so many bad feelings, but he still felt somehow let down.

Why had Saihara not done anything? Was it really that the episode did nothing for him? Ouma’s mind raced to a million different places as he headed back home, until he finally landed on a possibility that he did not like. Maybe Saihara had someone else he could vent those actions on? Maybe Ouma had been replaced without his knowing already? He knew it was impossible, Saihara wasn’t the kind of person that people wanted to be around. But then again, he had been with Saihara. What if Momota had forced other people to hang out with his loser friend? It’s not like Ouma was the only person Momota had targeted. 

But why did that thought fill him with so much dread? He didn’t even like Saihara, so why? It was ridiculous, he knew he was special to Saihara, the texts, the kisses, the fact that there was no one else there watching Danganronpa with them. Suddenly a comforting spark blossomed as he thought further. The sound of recognition when he first met Saihara, the way Saihara knew too much about him for no explicable reason – those things had left his mind in favour of more urgent things, but they were still important. 

Ouma was special to Saihara. He didn’t really know why, and he didn’t know to what extent, but he knew he was special to Saihara. It was just a shock, that was all. Every time they had met up before Saihara had been all over him. Now Saihara had him, he wasn’t so desperate for touch. That was all it was. 

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calmer chapter this week! They needed a little breather after last time!  
> Let me know what you thought, and what you think might be happening next!


	7. Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was what he expected of the murder mega fanboy.

The week had been filled with more sickly-sweet messages. ‘How are you?’ ‘How’s your day?’ ‘You don’t want to see me for breakfast this week?’ The texts were unending. He seemed to be Saihara’s complete focus, until they actually met up, it was infuriating. Except last time, which was somehow even more annoying. Their conversations had been purely about Danganronpa, but Saihara’s eyes had been solely on him. Originally, he had thought that the change had been due to the tame episode, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Was it that Saihara was trying to keep him sweet with caring words and thoughts to stop him from leaving? Maybe the other had picked up on his dissatisfaction, but he didn’t seem capable of understanding even basic social cues, could he really have noticed it? Shouldn’t he be happy about all this?

The next episode would have the next murder, and Saihara would show his true colours again. He was certain of that. Saihara wouldn’t remain so passive once the sugar pink blood had been spilt. This time it would prove a challenge to hold Saihara’s focus, but he _would_ do it. He had been formulating plans on what he could do to keep those eyes on him in spite of the distractions. Last week there just hadn’t been the same distractions, so he couldn’t put anything into place.

At the same time, when he had seen Saihara the time before that, when they had met for sex, there hadn’t been a new episode, yet Saihara had created a distraction for himself. The video playlist he had set up for their intimacy. With that in mind, why hadn’t he done the same thing on Friday? The thoughts that Saihara could have had someone else had ebbed away from his mind after the onslaught of texts, so what _was_ it? Could Saihara just have been satiated? Now that they had gone all the way, he wasn’t so pushy? Like a curiosity had been satisfied, so he had calmed down on that front?

Still filled with questions he had pushed on through the week, waiting patiently for Friday. Saihara had asked if he’d wanted to meet with him for breakfast that week, as had become routine, but he had rejected the invite. The food was nice, and even nicer for having someone else pay, but he had to remember that he didn’t _need_ Saihara. He was surviving before he met Saihara, he didn’t require his money or his charity. He was fine by himself. It was Saihara that was supposed to need him, Saihara was nothing to Ouma. Just a weirdo that kept him out of harm’s way.

 

The week was uneventful otherwise, just a slog until Friday came around again. At least there was something to wait for these days, a highlight of something actually happening. Something different. He was almost excited to see Saihara.

“Good week?” the question had come as a surprise to Ouma. Normally their conversation took an immediate plummet into Danganronpa, but here Saihara was making small talk face-to-face. Even though he knew exactly how Ouma’s week had gone from the endless ‘how’s your day?’ conversations.

“It was fine,” he finally mumbled neutrally, “pretty boring.” He walked alongside Saihara as usual, he had nothing new to report either so down they went into their new theories on what the next episode could hold. Saihara still seemed brighter than before. His face fitted with a more genuine smile even as he rambled, getting all hot-faced and fidgety. Something about that smile made him seem far less creepy, far less detestable. Ouma hated it.

Their arms brushed against each other as they walked to Saihara’s apartment complex, they walked so close together now, Ouma had expected Saihara to make some cheesy play to ‘subtly’ grab his hand. He didn’t do anything like that, but he didn’t pull away. They both continued to walk like that, close and clumsily touching with each step.

 

Same sofa, same snacks, same TV, same Saihara. Once the show started all conversation halted and their attention was drawn uninterrupted to the television. No matter how things changed in their mannerisms or relationship, this part never changed. Silence and focus.

This episode documented the students trying to go about the next 48 hours without killing anyone. They all had different ideas. Maybe they should all just stay in their rooms, maybe they should all stick together, maybe they should move in groups of 4 – 2 girls, 2 boys. They all came up with various plans with their own pros and cons. In the end they decided that their planning was pointless, they couldn’t agree on one course of action and, really, come on, if they couldn’t go 2 whole days without murdering another human being, they probably didn’t deserve to get to go home. It wasn’t a tall ask.

For the last 12 hours Monokuma announced a countdown, each hour he would simply go on the microphone and announce how many peaceful hours they had left. The students were all getting excited, making plans for when they got home, promising to all be friends, blah blah blah.

It was no surprise to anyone when, with only 3 hours remaining, the protagonist pushed open the door to the kitchen and found an unmoving body. Yelling with disbelief and shock he ran to the body’s side, checking for a pulse, breathing, any sign that this couldn’t be happening. Paling as he found no signs of life, the others that had heard his yell came running. The girl in his arms stared up lifelessly into his own fierce eyes.

The body discovery announcement rang out over the cries for their lost freedom. All manner of ‘why did this have to happen?’ and ‘who the hell did this?’ echoed throughout the tiled kitchen. The girl’s side was coated in neon pink blood, no signs of a fight anywhere in the room or her body. They would have to go over this crime scene very carefully to find any trace of evidence. To find out who had ruined their chance of escape, and for what reason they sacrificed their own freedom along with everyone else’s. The ultimate botanist was dead, along with their chance of leaving with all their new-found friends.

 

“Ah,” Saihara breathed as the episode ended, “I thought for sure she would be the killer,” he pouted. Reaching for the remote he rewound the show back to the shots of the body, flipping through each scene, meticulously scanning for details.

The blood was too obvious, too widespread across her body as if there was no source for the bleeding. It seemed so simple, but Saihara mulled over each image thoughtfully, muttering about what the murder weapon could be. Ouma wouldn’t speak up, he didn’t want Saihara to think that he had deduced the solutions before the other, the one who idolised the ultimate detective. Kirigiri he was not. 

The more he stared at the bloodied corpse, the more flushed he became, the more he began to shift his weight around on the sofa. This episode had certainly excited him it seemed. Saihara set the remote down, the screen still shining bright with the image of the dead girl, and he moved his hand to his crotch, cupping himself through his trousers. He had become shameless, not finding the need to confirm if doing something like that in front of Ouma was okay or not. After what they had done together, why would it not be?

It was time.

 

“Hey Shuichi,” Ouma shuffled up against Saihara’s side, words tickling the other’s ear. “Want to do something fun?” He let his own hand ghost over the top of Saihara’s against his groin, flattening his palm against the back of Saihara’s hand, applying pressure through him. He let out a breathy groan, hips twitching under their combined touch.

“Yeah,” was the simple response, the flushed boy’s brain thinking of only one thing. “A-ah, but the, uh, the lube isn’t in here, I’ll go get it,” he stuttered, relucted to leave this position.

“Wait,” Ouma whispered against his ear, “where is it?”

“I-in my bedroom,” his hand moved under Ouma’s, his body desperate for friction.

“Then just wait for me in there.” It was perfect. The bedroom was where these things should happen anyway, and it would finally get him away from this tiny, overly familiar sofa. Away from the blinding screen.  

“Ah, right, sure,” he responded uncertainly, perhaps disappointed to be away from his beloved death scene. Ouma moved back, releasing Saihara to head into the bedroom. There weren’t many rooms in the apartment, and Ouma had briefly caught sight of the room on his first time to the house. He himself, however, had another room he needed to visit first.

 

Once Saihara had disappeared into the bedroom, Ouma slipped into the kitchen, scanning around the room for a particular item. Finally, his eyes settled on exactly what he was looking for as he pulled open draws at random. A set of kitchen knives. A frequently used piece of evidence. He gathered them up in his small hands, the light glinting off of their clean blades. He was grateful for that at least. He ran the tip of a finger against the blade of one, testing the sharpness. Pulling his finger away sharply, the small bead of crimson balanced against his skin. Red not pink. He wondered how familiar Saihara was with red blood in comparison. Would it excite him more or less?

Ouma had always disliked the use of the bright pink blood. It was like a type of censorship that hid nothing. Made people think it was okay, detached the murder show from reality. If the blood was red, would people still love it like they do? Would it still be broadcasted as it is? If the blood was red, would people understand what they were doing, what they were classing as entertainment? Pink blood was never appealing to Ouma. Red blood was what he knew, the colour that flashed before his eyes most frequently. He ran his tongue against the small cut he had made, removing the blood from his skin, helping the wound to heal.

The set of six knives were held between his hands as he made his way out of the kitchen towards the bedroom where Saihara waited. Ouma wasn’t a masochist by any stretch, he hated pain, hated wounds, hated being hurt. It was never something he wanted. But maybe it would be like the dark marks around his neck had been. He had never liked bruises before those ones either. Regardless, his pain tolerance was pretty high from years of bullying and abuse, so he wondered if Saihara would even be able to hurt him. Knives were new. He had been cut before, but they had only been quick, impulsive nicks. The cuts always hurt, a sharp, sudden pain that dulled away quickly. He had certainly never been stabbed before, but didn’t intend to be now either.

Filled with anticipation he entered the bedroom. Saihara had already stripped himself down to his underwear, hand grazing against the tent through the material. The bottle sat neatly on the nightstand. The room was plain like the rest of the house. White walls, black bedding, full length mirror hidden in the corner of the room, a wardrobe and chests of draws dotted along the walls. The house was seriously lacking in the merchandise that would be expected from the obsessed boy. The only conclusion was that he was hiding it. Somewhere in the house there was a secret. What else might he find in such a stash?

 

He freed himself of that pondering hastily, blurry focus snapping back to the blades and sharpened gaze of the other boy. He set them down on the nightstand, shifting the bottle to the edge to make space. Regardless of how gently he attempted to place them, they still met the wood with a clattering noise. Ouma hopped onto the bed alongside Saihara, who now had propped himself up to a sitting position from his relaxed slump. He began to work his hands along the clasps and buttons of his clothing to match Saihara’s mostly undressed state.

“Uh, what are,” Saihara began, tongue brushing roughly against his suddenly dry mouth as he eyed the knives, “what are these for?” Kicking off his socks along with his trousers, Ouma turned his bright stare towards the side of Saihara’s face.

“What do you think they’re for?” he replied cheerfully, stretching his arms behind him to lean back more comfortably. Saihara’s silence, however, prompted him to surrender the answer. “They’re for you,” he shifted towards the other, pressing the fingertips of one hand against Saihara’s warm chest, drawing his eyes away from the knife set. “To use,” he continued, punctuating his sentence with long breathes and fluttering eyelashes, pushing his palm down against the exposed flesh, feeling the frantic beating beneath. “On me,” he finished, pressing his own bare chest against the side of Saihara’s body. Shining purple eyes never leaving the other’s face, he watched as Saihara bit down on his bottom lip with thrill, sweat building around his forehead as the possibilities flashed behind his eyelids.

“Really?” he finally blurted, breathless. Ouma gave him a grin, and couldn’t keep the thoughts out of his head.

Got him. That look, that was the one he’d wanted to induce. His flushed skin, the sweat trickling down the sides of his face, that light behind his otherwise dull, boring eyes. The look that Danganronpa always brought out of him. This time Ouma had caused it, he had caused that frenzied look. He leaned his small body upwards, placing his lips lightly against Saihara’s shoulder. Breaking away from the small kiss against his heated body, he looked up once again meeting the other’s eyes.

“Really,” he nodded, letting himself drop down to lie back on the bed, his small smirk still playing against his lips. Saihara positioned himself atop Ouma, hands pressing the bed down above his shoulders, knees just beneath his hips. He leaned down slowly until their lips met, sweetly at first before dissolving into something altogether lustier. Saihara broke the kiss, saliva still connecting them far longer than Ouma would have liked. Saihara was like a drool factory, he always seemed kind of damp to the touch. It wasn’t appealing.

He sat back, shifting his moderate weight towards Ouma’s thighs, he could feel the mattress raise around his head as he moved. His dark eyes flicked towards the blades, before returning to Ouma as if conflicted. He wanted to roll his eyes, he’d already given his permission for this, did he really need _more_ comforting?

Saihara was the one that wanted to do this anyway, the way he lit up at the suggestion and all. But if Ouma played along with his little dangerous streak then he would win. He was already on the road to victory. They were in the bedroom, away from the screen or any reference to that show. Ouma was the one drawing out his feelings and wants, not the fantasy inside the TV. He just needed to cement it. Make Saihara know that Ouma was the only one who would accept him for the freak he was, make him know that Ouma would satisfy that freak fully. By doing so it would mean that Saihara would be _his_. Regardless of Momota, regardless of anyone, Saihara would not be able to leave, he would not be able to go against him for fear of losing him. The only person who accepted him like this. The only person to let him fulfil his desires.

 

After what felt like an eternity of uncertain staring, he finally reached out with a newfound confidence towards the set. He grabbed the black handle of the smallest knife, likely the most used of them all. It made sense for him to go with that one, it was the least intimidating and possibly the most familiar. At first, he just held the knife, it was nowhere even near Ouma, he just held it while sitting there, staring.

“Hey, come on,” Ouma called to him, jolting him out of his thoughts, “you losing your nerve or what?” he asked while jabbing Saihara in the leg, jostling the boy side to side a little.

“N-no,” he stuttered, before holding onto the knife more confidently, as if he actually remembered how they work. “No,” he clarified, sounding more sure of himself.

“Good!” Ouma beamed back, no happiness, his smile merely powered by what was to come of this. Knowing that this would only be the catalyst of a future of ease.

His small frame involuntarily shuddered as the cool metal made first contact with his waiting body. The sharp edge of the blade was placed delicately against his chest. He could feel it with each breath. Looking back to Saihara he could see his top teeth pressing into his bottom lip again, intense focus in his eyes as he took in every moment of this scene. More pressure was applied to the knife, indenting the skin underneath, until he finally slid it, letting the blade slice through the skin cleanly. The cut was small, but it stung. Ouma held back a wince in favour of gritting his teeth. It didn’t hurt that much, but the sharp sting had been noticeable as it happened.

It was shallow, Ouma had expected as much, Saihara wouldn’t make a deep cut as his first one. As obsessed as the boy was with his killing, he wasn’t confident. Really, the only reason Ouma felt safe with this at all despite the fact that this boy was still so new to him, was that he _knew_ Saihara wouldn’t kill him. In this world if you killed someone, you would just go to jail and live your life in boredom. No televised investigation, no flashy execution and no fans getting off on your suffering. Ouma was safe.

A thin line of red filled the crack in his skin. Saihara released his sore lip, running his tongue along them both instead. They remained in silence. The knives and Ouma were the only important things now.

 

Saihara swallowed thickly as he positioned the knife again, this time in the centre of his chest, the small blade resting in the dip. The tip of the knife was pointed towards his chin, and with an offhanded thought he wondered what it would feel like if Saihara rammed the blade upwards through that thin skin. His idle thought was interrupted by Saihara shifting again, pressing more of his weight against the knife, the blade almost cutting from the downwards pressure alone. With a loud inhale the knife was pulled backwards, sliding through the skin with ease. This cut was longer, and was made slower. Ouma kept his wide eyes glued to the object cutting into him. The sting was more intense, enough to make him hold his breath without realising. He watched the blade be slowly, ever so slowly, dragged down and through his flesh, stinging as the new skin was torn, and the rest of the cut throbbing as the cool air hit the wound. Finally, the blade was lifted before his stomach began, a hiss breaking through his gnashed teeth.   

Looking down at the new red line it was clear that this cut was much deeper than the last, and much longer. Blood filled the new cut much more quickly than it did before, the throbbing already beginning to dull as the warm blood seeped over the edges. Watching it happen, Ouma felt a little lightheaded, he’d been hurt so many times before but watching his own body be cut so deliberately, so slowly, was somehow surreal. He took deep breaths to try to keep his calm, trying not to pant for the air that he had missed while he had been holding his breath. Glancing up at the other boy, the one holding the blade, the edge of which now glistening with a thin lining of red, he looked pleased. Saihara’s eyes bored into the injury, taking in every detail of it with delight.

Saihara raised a finger and ran the tip of it down the wound he had created. The contact relit the burning pain as it traced down his chest. Another hiss escaped. Damn Saihara and his stinging, sweaty hands. Saihara stared at the blood on his finger, smudging it with his thumb, feeling the thickness, memorizing every feature. He leaned down towards Ouma, weight spreading around the bed again, surrounding the small boy. Gentle, wet kisses were laid against the side of neck, Ouma’s back craning slightly at the unexpected, pleasant, painless contact. The kisses travelled down to his protruding collarbone, and to the top of the long cut.

Saihara looked up for a moment, letting their eyes lock before turning back to Ouma’s bony, bloodied chest. He placed his lips against the wound in another light kiss, before darting out his tongue and letting it dance down the length of the cut. Ouma squirmed against the odd sensation. Saihara’s mouth was wet, and each breath against his skin hot. The heat of his tongue worked to numb the pain, eagerly lapping against the edges of his broken skin. He pulled away, their eyes meeting again. Saihara’s lips were rouged with his blood, both faces flushed and wild.

 

Hastily Saihara leaned over to the nightstand and dropped the small knife down with the set, making their ugly, metallic racket once more. He skipped a few steps and grabbed one of the bigger knives. The chef’s knife. Similar in shape to the small knife, just bigger, and more intimidating. He smiled, toying with the knife between his hands like a child. His eyes darted all around Ouma’s body, hungry for more, trying to pick out the next place he wanted to try.

Suddenly it seemed he had made a decision, shifting his whole body downwards. Ouma stilled in confusion as to where Saihara was trying to focus next, the saliva on his chest drying out around the wound uncomfortably. A hand stroked along the outside of his thigh, the other hand gripping the new knife tightly. Saihara now sat on his knees between Ouma’s legs, his hand moving from the outside of his thigh to the back, raising his leg a little. Ouma bent his knee, watching as Saihara scanned the inside of his thigh up and down, licking his stained lips. Ouma shuddered in anticipation, seeing Saihara look at him with so much focus, no distractions in sight, made this worth it. Saihara couldn’t escape now.

The flat side of the knife came into contact with his skin first, cold and smooth. It was swept cleanly down the skin, as if the area was being tested first. He pushed down the constant pulsing sting of his previous cuts, shifting all the attention he could on the new site. Not looking away from the pale white leg, Saihara turned the knife in his hand, and reset his position towards the top of the thigh. This time the sharp edge of the blade rested dangerously against the soft skin, Saihara’s free arm holding tightly to the outside of Ouma’s leg, keeping him still.

He began to push the knife down, tight to the skin. There was more for the knife to press in against there, the thigh padded with a small amount of fat. Then, with enough force, it began to cut.

The initial sharpness of the blade penetrating his skin caused him to gasp, the area on his leg apparently much more sensitive than the skin on his chest. The knife was dragged through his skin, the tip of the blade completely submerged in his body. Watching it happen, watching the much deeper cut be made moment by moment, gave Ouma a strange feeling, like something in between nausea and ecstasy. Blood already pooled and spilled from the injury, dripping onto the bed and staining the sheets beneath, not that he thought Saihara minded. The pain was intense, burning and sharp, but he didn’t feel like screaming or yelling. It was exhausting. He just laid back in a sort of trance, addicted to just watching it happen as if it wasn’t even his own body. It was pain in a way he had never experienced. It hurt so much and yet his body didn’t react like he would have expected.

That was when he realised that the blood trickling down his skin was not alone. Wet heat rolled down his temples onto the pillow beneath his head from the corners of his overflowing eyes. Tears escaping along with his erratic breathing and the occasional hiss as new skin was ripped through. Saihara didn’t shift his gaze, but that was fine, the tears were only a natural response to the agony, they were not meaningful.

 

Eventually the blade was removed from him, about a hand’s length away from his knee. The knife dripped with crimson, Saihara’s hungry eyes hiding behind the silver metal blade. Saihara panted against the steel, pressing his wide tongue against the flat side of the blade and licking up to the tip. Watching the action, Ouma could feel himself become breathless, the odd act affecting him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He wasn’t a masochist, but he did enjoy that. It wasn’t the pain, it was watching Saihara enjoy every inch of what he had to offer, flesh and blood.

The still blood coated knife was set down lazily on the bed, and Saihara moved back to the leg. His lips met with the new, deep cut like he was a starved man. He kissed and licked at the wound wildly. Agony and ecstasy. Saihara’s cannibalistic passion was enthralling, something far more interesting than he could have imaged. Small fists bundled up in the thin sheets below him, squinted eyes catching Saihara’s bloodied face for just a moment. The amount of bleeding from the new wound had stained more than just his lips this time, he was like a primal predator devouring a meal. Ouma let his head tilt to the side, eyes closing to focus on the feel of Saihara’s mouth against the inside of his thigh. Against the inside of skin.

His tongue lapped up and down the incision, drinking in the thick, warm blood that flowed so willingly to his mouth. The tongue pushed in, past the separated layers of skin to flick at and barely graze the fat layer beneath. Ouma heard a strangled noise, realising quickly that he had been the one to make it. He scrunched his eyes closed harder, balling his fists into the pillow instead of sheets, writhing under Saihara’s touch. The side of his face pushed down harder into the tear soaked soft pillow under him. It hurt. But Saihara was so delighted, so intensely focused. But it _hurt_.

 

Ouma wasn’t sure at what point one of Saihara’s hands had moved south, or at what point Saihara had removed his underwear. He had been so blinded by pain, paying so much attention to Saihara’s movement and the feelings running through his veins that he had been surprised to crack his eyes open and see the other boy completely naked and jerking off, tongue still buried in the wound. It looked to be less blood and more salvia by that point, but Saihara had a sinister glint, he wanted something more, something sick.

“I,” Saihara hesitantly made the first sound, breaking a silence that had been held since this started. His voice had sounded alien to them both, prompting him to clear his throat and try again. “I want to do something,” he dropped his tone, “it’ll hurt, but there’s something I really want to do.” His hand had stopped working himself, instead reaching for the knife on the bed once more. Ouma’s eyes watched him widely with trepidation as to this request.

“What is it?” he slowly asked, his own voice rocked with tremors.

“I-it’s just one more,” he took in a loud, shaky breath, turning to face the slit flesh, “just one more cut. I want to see more blood, and then I want, I want to do something.” Despite his confidence when cutting and tasting each wound, he was somehow too shy to specify what he wanted? Ouma settled for jumping to the worst conclusion, carefully eyeing the naked boy atop him, coloured with his blood. He was the supplier of Saihara’s desires.

“Do it,” Ouma permitted, “I can handle one more.” Ouma gave a nod. He honestly wasn’t sure he could handle one more. He had thought for sure that Saihara wouldn’t have been able to push him to his limits, but he had been wrong. All the beatings he had taken, burns and abuse, they hadn’t been the same. They had been impulsive attacks made in the moment. They were not cuts made slowly and methodically with upmost pleasure painted across the assailant. It was completely different.

 

For some reason, what Ouma had not expected were Saihara’s next actions. He had not realised that ‘one more cut’ had meant that he intended to cut back over the prior thigh cut to reopen it. He immediately flinched upon the cold contact with the sore wound, and as the blade sliced through again, deepening the already excruciating cut he buried his face more into the pillow than he had before. He clenched the material in his mouth and bit down hard. The muscles in his jaw ached, but it was nothing in comparison to the feeling in his leg. It was like his skin and blood and muscle and _everything_ was on fire. Like everything was fizzing and screaming. He growled into his mouthful of fabric, wet with his spit.

He sharply inhaled as the knife left him, the pain not dulling as usual, instead remaining fierce. Sweat poured down his back as he squirmed on the bed, panting intermittently as he bit and released the pillow. In a flash of vision as he opened his blurry eyes, he saw fresh dark blood running free of his body once more. Would Saihara be happy with this? What else did he want? What else could he possibly want to do?  

All questions were answered in horror as Saihara guided his erect dick to the wound on his thigh. Ouma couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding, barely breathing. The head touched the open cut first, becoming slick and crimson as it rubbed against the torn skin. Tears ran from his eyes faster, a constant stream of wet stuck to his face. This amount of pain was incredible. This was what he expected of the murder mega fanboy. He knew Saihara had a fondness of the stab victims and knife related executions judging by his reactions to the show, obviously now he realised it was because he wanted to stick his dick in the wound and fuck them dead. In reality he would settle for rubbing his cock against a wound, thrusting against Ouma’s thigh, panting and crazed. The blood lubricated him so he could slide and move against the injury without concern. Ouma felt like he could throw up.

He wasn’t even really sure he was conscious the entire time, it seemed like time had slowed and sped up simultaneously. Ears filled with Saihara’s grunts and groans, his own desperate muffled whines and the unpleasant noise of Saihara getting off coated in blood, rubbing himself against the loose layers of skin. Ouma was only comforted by the reminder that it would end.

With a final gruff huff Saihara came, spurts of white covering Ouma’s thigh, filling areas of the cut. Ouma could only grip the pillow white knuckled, biting, sobbing, screaming, whatever into it, begging the pain to stop. He was wet, sticky, bleeding, and overwhelmingly pained.

Needless to say, he had lost any arousal he’d had by this point. For awhile it had been somewhat good, exciting, but it had gone too far. Saihara had gone too far, but Ouma had allowed it. He had given permission without asking for more information, he’d been willing to do whatever it was that Saihara wanted. This time.

With this single night of sickening agony, he had Saihara trapped. With this, he would be Ouma’s loyal toy instead of the other way around. The glee that painted his features as he ran off to get his first aid kit, the kindness he had shown as he tried to clean the wounds as best he could, wiping away Ouma’s tears and applying bandages and gauzes, it all proved that he had won. Saihara wouldn’t be forgetting this anytime soon.

 

Saihara wouldn’t forget the person that gave him everything he wanted. More than he could ever expect of anyone else.

Saihara was _his_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to split this into 2 chapters but I got so into writing the knife stuff that I just made it a long chapter instead. Hope you enjoyed...this!   
> I added a couple new tags but let me know if you think I should put anything else up.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought about all this!


	8. Full

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Let’s have dinner after school instead on Wednesday'

‘How are you feeling today?’ That was the hot text of this week. Every day Saihara sent him the same message in the morning. His answer was always the same in return.

‘I’m okay.’ Admittedly it was not necessarily the truth. Each time he moved too much or too fast or sometimes even moved at all a sharp twang of searing pain would radiate from his inner thigh, reminding him of what they had done together. The lengths he had let the other boy go to with his body.

He was used to being hurt, but he was not accustomed to large cuts. He was doing his best to keep it clean and covered, but the almost constant background throb made him doubt that he was doing the right thing. What else could he do though? He wasn’t wild over the idea of going to a doctor about it, after all how was he meant to explain it? It was far too clean and in too much of an odd place for it to be passed off as an accident. Even if he tried to claim it was self-harm, he didn’t want to get his parents or anyone else involved, for his ‘own good’ or not. Doctors could never just keep quiet about things. 

For now, it was fine, they all were. The smaller ones on his chest seemed to be healing properly, not even needing bandages. As long as he kept his personal first aid kit well stocked, he was sure he’d heal fine without losing the leg or anything like that. It would almost definitely scar. He didn’t mind that.

He wondered if he should do the same to Saihara. Claim him as his own, matching scars like tattoos or something. He doubted Saihara would be into it though, he seemed like someone who wanted to come off as all hardcore but would start crying if something hurt. Maybe he should test it? Or at least ask? Would he even really want to? Hurting someone else for fun had its appeals, but Ouma wasn’t that kind of person. That was the kind of thing the horrible people did. The ones who hurt him. The ones who went on Danganronpa. Everyone.

 

Saihara had invited him for breakfast, as per usual with the exception of last week, where he rejected it. Ouma made an amendment.

‘Let’s have dinner after school instead on Wednesday.’ There were a few reasons for this change. One was that dinner tended to be bigger and more expensive than breakfast, and he felt like he’d earned this from Saihara. Second was that it would stop him from having to miss any morning classes, and so would keep Amami from having that excuse to speak with him. If the upperclassman really did want something from him, he’d have to find another reason to approach him.

 

Wednesday rolled around quickly, the boring, repetitive days blurring into an endless cycle. Walking over to Saihara by the alley made it feel like a Friday, making the midweek day feel even more disappointing.

“How’s your leg?” Saihara wasted no time asking as soon as the smaller boy was close enough to comfortably talk to.

“I keep telling you it’s fine,” he droned back, “I’m not walking weirdly or anything, right?” He studied Saihara’s face for signs of change.

“No, you’re walking fine!” He defended quickly as they began to walk aimlessly. “Did you have anywhere in mind?” Saihara asked after a few beats of silence, having never established _where_ they would actually go.

“Well,” Ouma drawled, having not given the venue much thought himself. “You pick,” he finally settled on avoiding the question, “you’re paying after all, pick something in your price range,” he cheekily nudged the other as they walked with a playful grin.

“Um, I know, uh, somewhere,” Saihara spoke with an out of place shyness, as if ashamed to know somewhere that sold food.

“Uh, sure, let’s go there then,” Ouma mimicked his uncertainty, not sure why they weren’t sure.

“A-anyway, I’ve been thinking about the murder,” Saihara finally perked up as they walked more swiftly, a destination sorted. The conversation was back to Danganronpa as always, so Ouma patiently listened and off-handily commented on all of his theories and ‘deductions’ as they made their way.

 

The café shouldn’t have surprised Ouma as much as it had. ‘Danganronpa: Trigger Hungry Havok’. The Danganronpa fan café was far enough away from their school to be a special trip, but close enough that Ouma was shocked he hadn’t heard much about it at school or from Saihara. Or maybe Saihara had spoken about it and Ouma had just switched off? The building was garishly bright, black and white monotone splashed liberally with hot pink and characters from the original game series thrown all about the design. It was an ugly strain on the eyes. Saihara seemed to not notice how awful the outside was as he took Ouma’s thin wrist in his firm grip and walked them in.

They were sat down quickly, a fair few open seats about. If this had been a limited time café, it would have been far more packed but clearly this must have been a permanent attraction. Ouma sat on the white side of the table, Saihara on the black side. Ouma watched his eyes spin around the interior, taking in every sprite and piece of art silently for once. The café must have offered a varied menu, since the amount of smells around them was almost overwhelming. Coffee, sweetness, spicy, meat – there were all sorts of scents in the air. He tried not to focus on the smell of the lingering sweaty otakus, one of which sat opposite.

Saihara slid a menu over to Ouma, picking up his own excitedly. He acted like he hadn’t been there before, but that was ridiculous seeing as it was so near. His own eyes were drawn to the images of the food and drinks on the shiny menu, naturally everything was characterised in some way.

“Do you come to this café much?” Ouma decided to ask, having been so put off by Saihara’s wide eyed awe.

“Not much,” Saihara distantly replied, deeply interested in the presumably unchanging list in his hands. “Once a week usually, sometimes only once every two weeks.”

“Wow, once a week is kind of a lot,” and he’s still amazed by all this terrible design work?

“Do you think so?” he looked at Ouma from above the menu, “people eat multiple times a day, I don’t think it’s much to come here for one of them a week,” eyes back down, “it’s not even always to eat, sometimes it’s just a drink.” As if that makes it better. Ouma’s stomach gave a desperate wail of hunger, not satisfied at him just looking at the food pictures. Not everyone gets to eat once every day, let alone multiple times.

“What’s good?” he found his appetite drawn to the Mondo Owada butter chicken curry. He was pretty sure he could guess Saihara’s go to though.

“I haven’t tried everything, but it’s all been good. I really like the Detective Donburi. The Kirigiri themed milkshake is really good as well,” it was too obvious really. “I think I’ll get those today too.”

“I think I’ll have,” he drew each word out, still scanning over the menu and deciding while he spoke. “The royal milk Celestea and the Junko Udonshima,” he made a face as he spoke the names, so lame.

“Nice, we can have a dessert too if you want after,” Saihara gave him a sudden bright smile. Was it because he heard his stomach growl? Did Saihara feel bad that he was hungry? He had to admit the desserts looked good though, he’d spotted a waiter with the Monokuma macaroons and they had looked pretty amazing.

“We’ll see after.”

 

The ornate food arrived quickly, far more appealing in appearance than name. Saihara’s large bowl of meat and rice included chopsticks topped with a little handbook charm, the sauce soaking into the white rice drawn as an outline around the meat in the centre like a crime scene. It was coupled with a thick, sweet looking lavender drink. Ouma’s own meal, the udon dish, featured the plump noodles fashioned into the pigtails of Junko Enoshima including decorative white and black bear fishcakes as her hair clips. Seafood and vegetables topped with bonito flakes were positioned under the ‘hair’ in place of a face. It was almost a little creepy. His drink was served in a large teacup, black and white lace-like patterning. It was a little sweeter than he expected, but pleasantly creamy and warm.

Saihara pulled out his phone, snapping pictures of both their meals. Ouma was tempted to join him, but the less evidence of his own enjoyment, of his own Danganronpa interest, the better. They both tucked into their meals without further ado.

 

“That was a lot of food,” Ouma sighed, belly satisfied for once. For a theme café their portions were pretty generous.

“Mmm, it’s really good here,” Saihara nodded, wiping the chopsticks with a napkin and pocketing the pair.

“I don’t think I can manage a dessert though,” he whined, sadly eyeing the menu of its fancy dessert images. Saihara gave a light chuckle at Ouma’s innocent complaint.

“We’ll have to come another time then,” that was a wonderful solution, Ouma decided.

 

It was already getting dark by the time they left the obnoxiously bright café, they walked side by side as always back to the train station.

“I’ll walk you back home,” Saihara announced, Ouma didn’t mind, it wouldn’t be the worst to have company on his way back in the evening. Saihara regaled him with descriptions of the other meals he had tried there, showing off pictures he had taken on his phone of them as well. Ouma noted that he showed Ouma the pictures from his social media account, instead of from his phone image gallery – the pictures were clearly all taken using his phone. Was it more convenient? Maybe he stored a lot of images on his phone. Everything from that café really did look good though.

The rest of their walk was back to Danganronpa as normal, even when Ouma thought they’d exhausted this topic, there was somehow always more to say. It was impressive how the other boy could stick on the same subject without fail and still say new things. Or at least, it didn’t sound like he’d said it before. He couldn’t remember _everything_ the other said, that would be impossible, he talked _a lot_.

Ouma noticed as they walked that Saihara was leading, turning corners without a second thought, and without Ouma telling him to. On their way to his house. His house that Saihara had never been to or been directed to. Ouma kept quiet, it fell in line with other things he had noticed, but they had just had a fun day and he didn’t want to ruin it by bringing something weird up now. But he would get to the bottom of this one day.

“This will do,” Ouma stopped walking once they were near his house, he didn’t want his parents to catch sight of him with someone else. He didn’t even know what they would do. He’d never had friends to have near the house before this, but he felt like it probably wouldn’t be good.

“You sure?” Saihara asked, turning his head in the direction of Ouma’s nearby house and then back to his face.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine from here,” lies. It would only get worse from here.

“If you say so,” Saihara awkwardly continued their farewell longer than needed. After a short spell of silence and shifting back and forth from heels to toes Saihara leaned in close and gave the shorter boy a quick kiss on the lips. It still seemed strange that after the things they had done, the small chaste kisses were somehow the most personal moments he had around the other boy.

“Talk to you later,” Ouma grinned and waved as Saihara began his own journey back.

 

Finally, alone again after making his way through the hell of his own house, he created a makeshift barricade for his room door and bundled himself away in his bed. He didn’t want to deal with anything else. He’d had a good day. A calm, peaceful day. Only the disruptions that he couldn’t avoid, like coming home. It would be even better if he didn’t have to go back home, but he did. They would be even more mad if he didn’t, right? Had he even stayed out anywhere to find out? Maybe they would be happy to not have to deal with him for a day. To not see his pathetic self. Their small, weak, scared, selfish boy. His eyes drifted lazily to the clock beside his bed, it had been just over an hour since he had said his goodbyes to Saihara. He grabbed his phone, deciding he would be the one to text first for once.

‘You get home alright?’ his fingers darted across the screen, sending the simple message quickly.

‘Home safe,’ the reply was short, and to the point, but Ouma smiled all the same as if he could feel Saihara’s own joy of having received the message through his phone.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Softer chapter this week to recover from the last one.


	9. Scratching the Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was certain Saihara was hiding all sorts of things.

Friday came again quickly, and even the text messages had felt a little less annoying since Wednesday. Something about that peaceful day had left Ouma with a warm feeling towards Saihara, he wasn’t quite sure what about it had, but something had made everything just seem nicer. Maybe it was just the food, but he liked to think it was something about the other boy. It made the situation he was in better to think that maybe being around Saihara wasn’t so bad.

He was greeted by a beaming smile and eyes filled with excitement after school that day. After their now normal ‘how are you’ conversation starters they dove right back into their favourite topic. The excitement in the other began to make more sense when he was reminded that it was trial and execution day. Saihara presented a world of theories, and Ouma nodded, keeping his own thoughts to himself.

Once they reached Saihara’s house it was the same routine as always. Snacks, sofa, TV at the ready. It was comfortable, and Ouma took his seat wordlessly. They had managed to get the early train, so they had some time to burn before the show began. Saihara excused himself to go to the bathroom before the episode started, and from the corner of Ouma’s eye he realised that he had left his phone. The device sat on the table appealingly, endless possibilities within. He had to know.

He grabbed the phone quickly, hitting a button on the side to light the screen. Plain screensaver, just black with pink splatters, the text asking for the passcode in white. The passcode was a 5-digit number. Too easy. There was one number that fit that criteria perfectly in the Danganronpa world, the damning clue from the first trial of the first game, iconic. 11037, aka Leon. He tapped in the numbers, pleased that it had been so easy, only to be greeted with ‘passcode incorrect, please try again’. What? What else could it even be? It was obviously that. To be sure Ouma typed in the numbers again, to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake the first time, but the outcome was the same. What was he hiding? He hadn’t made his passcode the most glaring thing, that was good he supposed, but in that case, what _was_ it?

He pondered a few more things, trying two other iterations of the same 5 digits – backwards, jumbled, he wasn’t sure how else to try it. Plus, he didn’t want to lock Saihara out of his phone. He placed it back on the table defeated after his four attempts, but curiosity ever growing. What was on there? He shouldn’t have been so interested, after all it was common sense to not make your password obvious, but there was definitely something up with Saihara and his phone may provide the evidence he needed.

Saihara returned not long after Ouma had given up, returning to his seat. Ouma grinned, crunching on crisps, as if nothing had happened. After some final deciding on who was the murderer, the show finally began, the theme song blaring through the slightly too loud speakers.

 

The investigation turned up exactly what Ouma had suspected, no bloodied murder weapons, some theories on which knives could have been used and cleaned, but nothing concrete. Cups out of place, but deemed unimportant. The girl had seemingly done nothing out of the ordinary and there was no personal reason that would explain anyone wanting to kill her. She had been a sweet, kind girl, shy but no ill will towards anyone, wanting nothing more than to cheer people up with her flowers.

They had investigated the indoor garden area where she had spent most of her time tending to the plants, and had noticed a pair of scissors by a leafy green plant sporting smooth black berries. The scissors had always been in the gardening room, but no one else remembered them being on the side they were on now. Perhaps she had made some cuttings before she died.

They had reached almost no conclusions, nothing they had found leading to any definitive answers when the trial time announcement played throughout the school building. Outside the trial grounds the group lamented over their lost chance at freedom, as well as grieving for the sweet girl that had been so cruelly killed.

 

As the trial progressed, their outlook became more and more grim. Stunted sentences leading nowhere, completely unable to come to any answers. They all scrambled for any hint, any of the clues to line up, but there was nothing.

Clutching at straws the protagonist began down the trail of the out of place teacup. Loud incredulous shouts of how nonsensical it was to be killed by a teacup broke through the group, but the ultimate salesman started to speak up. Silencing the others, the ordinarily quiet man took control of the trial, using the out of place teacup as a clue as to when she was killed. The group became certain that the last person to see her, the person who would have seen her while she was drinking, was the killer and so they each skipped through their alibis once more until they found a conflict.

“Alright, I saw her!” the regal ultimate jeweller finally gave in after some pushing. “I saw her having tea, but she was in the dining room, not the kitchen.”

The arguments began to descend upon the finely dressed man, who insisted that if he had told the truth in the first place he would have been suspected while the others pushed that he was more suspicious for having lied. At last he gave his full account, that he had seen her but not spoken to her, she had finished her tea and gone into the kitchen where she had collapsed. He had seen her feet from a distance. Chaos ruled again as accusations flew out as to why he had left her, why he hadn’t gone for help but pathetically he admitted that he had been afraid the killer was still around, and that he would be killed too. The ultimate choreographer pointed out that her collapsing in a way that he would be able to see her feet went against where they had found her body.

As the group argued back and forth over his innocence, a small voice broke through their cries.

“What if she was poisoned?”

The tiny girl Hana explained that if the tea was poisoned the jeweller’s account made sense. She had got up and gone into the kitchen from the dining room and collapsed. The idea sent shockwaves through the court room and completely changed the case. The topic of the blood on the body began, if she was poisoned why did she look like she’d been stabbed, to which the protagonist, the ultimate policeman, realised that there had been no wounds on her. Their eyes had been distracted by the blood, but her clothes weren’t torn anywhere so she couldn’t have been stabbed. They took a mental inventory of the school but couldn’t work out where the fake blood could have come from.

“There is a place they could have got the blood from, but very few people know about it,” a pale girl clad in black clothing spoke gloomily. Of course, if there was a secret in the school the ultimate escape artist would probably have found it. She was incredibly perceptive and had found all of the newly unlocked rooms in record time.

She continued to explain about the morgue hidden in the school grounds, only accessible through moving the wooden boards that made up a wall in the basement. When asked who else knew about the place she informed them that she had only told Hana about the room. All eyes were suddenly on the small girl, shaking and watery eyed. Her brother yelled in her defence which spurred the escape artist to continue.

“But Hana-chan probably told you too, right, Kizan-kun?”

The trial once again devolved into senseless screaming and dead-end arguments over tiny details when the protagonist picked out something interesting in amongst the shouts. It seemed when the others were going through who saw who where during the day Kizan had been spotted leaving the garden, and leaving the dining room shortly before the jeweller had turned up. Suspicion turned to him. He denied any involvement with the crime but his sister spoke up again, choking back tears.

“The plant the scissors were left by,” she sniffled, wiping at her eyes uselessly as the tears began to fall, “was belladonna, a poisonous plant. It was you, wasn’t it? You made her tea with the belladonna without her knowing, then she drank it and died.” The ultimate salesman had been stunned by the accusation, when Hana’s gaze hardened on him. “You were going to hide it, use your talent to convince us it wasn’t you, and then we’d, and then we’d,” she struggled to finish, repeating the words over and over.

“And then we’d all die, Hana-chan included!” the protagonist chimed in, pointing a finger at the blackened.

As usual the culprit unable to further deny the claims began to cry and beg for forgiveness. ‘How could I have done such a thing’ and all that, but the emotional younger sister was furious with him. Screaming questions as to his motives, why would he do that when they could have all gone free, why hide it and try to kill them all? In his snivelling honestly, he claimed that hiding the truth was all done in self-preservation and fear, that he would try and reason with Monokuma to let Hana go free with him, which was obviously crap. Why would he think he could make a deal like that? He just didn’t want to admit that he was so afraid of being executed that he’d let his beloved little sister die so that he could live.

His motive was that the botanist was not the girl she seemed. She was a serial killer and as soon as they were out, she would kill them all. Why else would she grow such deadly plants? Sneaking the poison into all sorts of things, making the deaths appear as though she and the plants had not been involved, she already held a high body count. He had confronted her after Monokuma’s motive and she had given him a crazed explanation of her lifestyle, and the threat that she wanted to erase everyone that knew who she was and her talent. So, he had needed to act and kill her before they could all be released.

 

Ah, the heart-breaking end of a trial when the truth was out and only grieving remained. Until, of course, the murderer was dragged away for a gruesome execution in front of all his sobbing friends and family. His execution made a mockery of his talent, strapping him to a seat and forcing him to answer call after call with his charismatic charm. Each call increased in volume, his own greeting becoming more and more distorted as the sound from the other end of the phone became garbled and unbearable. His eardrums burst with the noise, blood running down his lobes and dripping to the floor. He swayed in his chair, balance lost, as a smartly dressed Monokuma appeared and grabbed the salesman’s golden tongue, piercing it with his long claws. His tongue was held out until he grew weak, and unable to hold his head up any longer crashed his chin against the desk below him. His teeth bit through his own tongue in a moment, and he was shown choking to death on his own blood.

 

It was all very dramatic, and ended as the group mourned for their murderous friend. As if anyone would actually still consider someone a friend knowing they’re a killer. _Ah_ , Ouma’s eyes drifted over to Saihara, leaning forward staring straight ahead, _he would_. Danganronpa through and through.

“Well,” Ouma spoke first as the ending theme came to a finish, “they handled the serial killer a little differently.” Killing her off before revealing she was a serial killer and using it like a motive. It wasn’t the way chapter 2 was usually handled though after all this time it _had_ happened before.

“I like it more when the serial killer stays alive as a constant threat,” Saihara replied, relaxing his tensed body back into the sofa a little.

“Me too,” he nodded, following suit to sit back. This time he hadn’t planned ahead, though there was no way he was doing _that_ again, no more knives. He’d had his fun. Though when Ouma focussed back on the other boy he saw his desperate flushed stare, body turned in his direction. Of course, an execution like that had got him all hot and bothered. Ouma let out a small huff, more to himself than Saihara, as the other closed the space between them. Their lips met open mouthed and sloppy without resistance, tongues and spit mixing in an instant. Hands under shirts and bodies grinding as they made out, small pauses and panting punctuated with little thoughts and rants about the episode they had just watched. It was strange to have Saihara’s tongue licking all around the inside of his mouth one moment, and then have him pull away with a ‘one more thing’ and begin another rushed ramble before mashing their mouths together again.

It felt very human.

 

Glancing out the window in the living room Ouma noted that it was getting dark already, and the thought of having to leave this warmth and return to his home full of yelling and hurt, being completely tossed aside and reminded of his lack of importance, was altogether too much. Without thinking he’d wrapped his thin arms around Saihara’s slender waist, burying his head against the crook of the other’s neck.

“I want to stay here tonight,” he whispered, eyes shut tight against the skin. Saihara always smelled sweaty and dusty, it had always put him off, but at that time it had almost felt comforting.

“Sure,” Saihara spoke just as softly, stroking the back of Ouma’s hair, fingers threading through the messy locks.

Their make-out session had ended there, and they had moved to the kitchen to make something for dinner. They had eaten snacks but Saihara had insisted that it wouldn’t be enough. It was a strange feeling to be in the kitchen making food after just having eaten something, stranger still to eat something when he wasn’t starving hungry. It wasn’t a bad feeling. They had just made simple omelettes with what Saihara had leftover in his fridge, but it was hot and tasty. That evening was more relaxing than normal, Ouma guessed that Saihara knowing he had him for the whole night made him less hasty. They sat on the sofa again after dinner, both leaning against each other to share the view of Saihara’s phone screen as they trawled through forums and videos about the last Danganronpa episode. It was when Saihara had returned from a bathroom trip that Ouma really paid attention though, making a mental note of the motions used to unlock his phone. As he thought about the position of the buttons it suddenly made sense.

05353\. 

The 0 was just there because it had to be 5 digits long, the 5353 was the important part. It must have been in reference to season 53. They were watching season 51 now, but season 53 is when Ouma would be old enough to apply for Danganronpa himself, so the same must have been true for Saihara. It was obvious that Saihara would apply for the show as soon as he could, and he was type of person that belonged on that stage, but it still sent an unfamiliar twang through Ouma’s chest. He wasn’t sure why the thought unsettled him so much.

 

They headed to bed early, Ouma knowing full well that going to bed in this situation did not equal sleep. He’d barely even got himself onto the bed when Saihara had him pinned, mouths roughly meeting once more. It seemed Saihara had still been waiting for this eagerly, despite how relaxed he had seemed before. In almost no time they were down to their underwear, both having become more confident and defter with the movements, kissing and nipping and touching. Saihara’s grey-green eyes travelled lower, taking in the gauze secured to the inside of his thigh. His fingers ghosted the edge of the bandage, the desire to remove it clear but not wanting to hurt the other. Ouma knew it was best if it stayed covered and was certainly not touched.

“What do you want to do?” Ouma asked, drawing his attention away from the wound.

“Could you, um,” he hesitated, voice breaking with anxiety. Ouma kept his eyes locked on the other expectantly, he was always so shy when asking for these things, but no so shy doing them. “M-maybe it’d just be better if I, uh, showed you.” He left his position on the bed and made his way to the other end of the bedroom, swinging open the door of his wardrobe. From the angle Ouma was at he couldn’t see the inside, but he wondered if that was where he stashed his embarrassing merchandise.

It seemed he was at least partially right. Saihara held a clothes hanger from his outstretched arm adorned with a cosplay. Kyoko Kirigiri, what a surprise. His second hand soon emerged with a cheap looking lavender wig. Ouma had to fight to suppress the grimace pulling at his face. The worst thing about it was that the outfit didn’t exactly look _new_. It looked like it had been worn before, and knowing Saihara wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular Ouma could guess that only he had worn it. He didn’t like to think about how crusty that skirt could be.

“Um, this?” Saihara pathetically whimpered, giving the outfit a quick shake in the air as if to make it more appealing. Ouma flicked his eyes over the outfit, after those thoughts the skirt was out of the question, and the wig seemed like it’d be a real pain. He didn’t want to feel those artificial nylon strands against his sticky skin later.

“I’ll wear the top,” he compromised, “and the gloves,” they were an important part of her character after all. “And not the boots, obviously,” they were in a bed. Saihara paused to debate the offer.

“Everything on the top and the gloves?” he asked for clarity. Ouma wordlessly nodded, the shirt, tie and jacket weren’t such an issue in his mind. How gross could they be? He didn’t want his mind to go into detail. Saihara gave a nod back, putting the wig back into his wardrobe, peeling the fabric desired from the rest of the costume. He tossed the clothing onto the bed, Ouma shuffling to his knees to start putting it on.

The clothes weren’t his size, they weren’t bought for him to wear so it made sense. Though, as he pulled on each item, he thought that it must have been a bit tight on Saihara since it wasn’t much bigger than himself. Ouma also noted that even though he owned the outfit and had evidently worn it for ‘him time’, Saihara had wanted Ouma to wear it so that he could pretend to fuck the character, instead of wearing it himself and being fucked as the character.

“If you aren’t going to wear the wig,” Saihara began slowly, looking anywhere but at Ouma as he shrugged the jacket on, “could we, um, turn off the, ah, turn off the lights?” Saihara must have been concerned that he would offend Ouma by the suggestion, and he would be right. Saihara _really_ wanted to pretend that he was her, huh?

“Fine,” he spat under his breath, Saihara ignored the sharpness of it and moved to the switch. It looked like he was waiting for Ouma to finish putting on the gloves. “Are we role-playing too?” he hissed indignantly, catching the other by surprise.

“That’d be,” he paused, licking his lips in anticipation, “that’d be nice.” Ouma resisted the urge to roll his eyes, a feeling he got pretty frequently around Saihara.

“Right, so why does the amazing ultimate detective Kyoko Kirigiri want to bang you?” he pulled the second leather glove on easily, stretching his fingers out awaiting Saihara’s no doubt lame story.

“Um, how about,” he fidgeted with his hands restlessly, still looking away from Ouma. Maybe not wanting to see him in the outfit? Just wanting to turn off the lights and not envision Ouma in the clothing at all? “You’ve been investigating the case of a horrific homicide and I’m the main suspect, you need to get information out of me but worked out that I have a thing for you. So, uh, you know,” he trailed off into nothing. The story was far too thought out and repeated too easily to be something he just came up with. He’d been thinking about this.

“I’m trying to fuck the information out of you?” Ouma clarified, getting a shaky, red-face nod in return. Yep, about as lame a plot as he’d expected. “Alright,” he sighed, signalling for Saihara to turn out the light.

 

In the darkness Ouma could barely make out Saihara moving until he felt the bed shift under him. Saihara was back in his position above Ouma, loud, hot breaths hitting his face front on. He felt the boy above him loom, the heat of his face radiating against his own. Saihara leaned in close to his ear.

“Who would have thought that I would be able to get the world-famous Kyoko Kirigiri in bed with me?” he huffed against the shell of Ouma’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. So, he was more confident role playing? He supposed it was like living Danganronpa, that was kind of a role play too. Any TV show was really. He shook himself off of his distracting thoughts, wondering what to even say to that, and whether he would need to do some kind of weird voice. He settled for whispering breathily in a tone slightly higher than his normal voice.

“Your luck is an investigation for another day,” he breathed, running a gloved hand against the side of Saihara’s face, bringing it up so that their lips met again. He felt Saihara lean deeply into the kiss, was he enjoying it more with this façade? Ouma played along and let out a small moan into Saihara’s mouth. Once they broke apart, Saihara’s hand began caressing the clothing, unbuttoning the jacket and tugging the tie loose.

“I think I want to do a little investigation of my own,” Ouma let himself roll his eyes at that one. At least Saihara couldn’t see his reaction to his terrible lines. His hand pressed against the shirt at his chest and began to fondle the area. No boobs, but he had his imagination, right? Whatever. Saihara’s mouth moved to his neck, sucking and licking as his fingers began to focus in on his nipple through the shirt. Another little noise made its way from his throat, but this time it wasn’t forced. He was enjoying the sensation of the neck kisses and the thumbing of his nipple. He ran his covered hand through Saihara’s hair going from his nape upwards, pressing his face deeper against the side of his own neck while his small body arched beneath him. Saihara moved his hands down impatiently hooking his fingers around the elastic of his underwear and tugging them down, tossing them aside. It sounded like he did the same with his own after.

Some clattering and scratching to the side seemed like Saihara had grabbed the bottle of lube from where it sat on his bedside table. He could hear the plastic pump followed by the wet, slick sounds of it coating his fingers. Ouma relaxed his body back into the bed as much as he could as the cold lubricated fingers came into contact with his entrance. The fingers pushed in, pumping and wiggling. The feeling was still very alien to him. He felt Saihara’s hot body move closer to his again, leaning down and laying kisses against his collarbone, pulling the shirt down with his free hand to gain access. His tongue flicked out against the smooth skin, a hum on his lips. Another finger was added, the squelching sounds almost deafening in the dark.

“You’re so wet, Kirigiri-san,” the husky whisper brushed over his skin. Ouma felt his stomach turn in distaste. Since when was Saihara so into girls anyway? He’d only had sex with him, a guy, and didn’t seem to care that he was male then. He didn’t respond, he had no idea what to even say to it inside or outside of role play. Like hell the character would even deal with the situation like this.

 

The fingers were removed and the gross, wet noises were back. Then Saihara was back. Repositioned heat between his legs, he felt Saihara guide himself into his body. Ouma tried to stay relaxed, but it was difficult not to tense up when a dick was being shoved into something that does not feel dick sized. He pushed himself fully in, Ouma gritting his teeth as he did so, and Saihara returned to the neck kisses Ouma had liked before, hand moving back up to his chest while Saihara began to move his hips. Breaths coming out as quiet hisses through his teeth, Ouma moved his own hands, one to the back of Saihara’s head, clumsily grasping at his hair and the other the clutch the duvet he was laying on. He could feel his own body rocking with each thrust, the sound of skin on skin impact ringing out through the room.

“Touch yourself while I fuck you,” Saihara growled against Ouma’s neck, teeth grazing his skin as he gave a few nips. How could he say no to a request like that? He guessed Saihara didn’t want to break his immersion by touching him. Feeling around for the discarded bottle, he pressed down to get a pump of the liquid onto the glove that was not against Saihara’s head. He didn’t much like the idea of leather on dick action without it. He wrapped his hand around himself and tried to match Saihara’s pace.

Ouma moved the hand on Saihara to his bare chest, letting it run across his skin. The gloves must have been a turn on judging from how he upped his pace in response. Ouma sped himself up to match, shifting his hips to adjust Saihara’s angle on him. He brought his gloved fingers to Saihara’s nipple, he had enjoyed Saihara touching him there so he figured Saihara would probably like it in return. He certainly did. With volume behind his panting he pulled himself up to his knees, hands on Ouma’s hips to keep him steady, then they snapped from his hips to around Ouma’s throat, squeezing hard before Ouma could even realise what was happening.

Ouma raised his hand to grasp at Saihara’s around his neck, failing to claw at the skin due to the rounded fingers of the glove. His other hand didn’t leave, continuing to jerk himself off erratically. He snapped his eyes shut, Saihara pounding into him _hard_. He didn’t know if the feelings were good or bad, but he could feel the blood rushing to the surface of his face as he struggled to breathe. Whatever he was feeling, it was intense, but everything felt so blurred together and hectic. His body twitched as he felt a warm wetness hit his stomach from his own climax, some point soon after Saihara pulled out of him, leaving him empty as his muscles continued to spasm. The darkness of the room made it confusing to know if he was blacking out or not, things feeling hazy and maybe darker than before? Suddenly the hands released their hold of his throat and air rushed into his lungs with such force that he started coughing. Saihara jumped up and turned on the light.

That was new.

“Uh, I killed Kirigiri in the uh, in the role play,” Saihara sheepishly explained, having been carried away in his fantasy.

“I guessed,” Ouma wheezed, glad to get the gloves off his hands. Saihara took the clothing as he rapidly changed out of them, feeling more comfortable naked than in that weird outfit.

“You can get ready for bed first, if you want,” Saihara offered, “I’ll put these in the wash.” Good idea Sherlock. “Here,” Saihara called, a balled-up t-shirt hitting Ouma and falling limply to the floor. He grabbed it and darted into the bathroom, locking the door. It felt good to get cleaned up after doing that. Dried cum feels terrible, makes the skin go all tight. He also confirmed that Saihara definitely did also cum, he was happy to be cleansed of that too. He pulled on the big t-shirt, it would have been long on Saihara too, and while it just about covered what it needed to it didn’t exactly look as cute as they might have expected. It would do for sleeping.

 

Ouma returned to the bedroom holding down the bottom hem of the t-shirt as he scrambled under the covers. The bed wasn’t changed, but it would do, it’s not like he really expected Saihara to be hygienic about it. Cleaning his cosplay was much more important. He’d been staring at his phone when Ouma had climbed into bed, locking it he threw it onto the soft safety of the pillows as he left to get washed up himself. The phone taunted Ouma. He was certain Saihara was hiding all sorts of things, like why he knew more about Ouma than he should, why he didn’t show him photos from his phone gallery, maybe even why Momota made this stupid deal in the first place. He snatched up the device and tapped in the pin 05353.

The screen came to life, unlocking to the wallpaper of Kyoko Kirigiri. He almost flinched at her judging stare. He wasted no time in navigating along to his photos, knowing he was on a strict time limit. He could still hear water running so he was sure he had a while. He flicked his thumb against the screen, scrolling back in time, to before they had been introduced to each other. His eyes studied the pictures carefully, confirming his suspicions.

He found photos upon photos of himself.

They had all been taken from a distance, some fuzzier than others from moving. There were pictures of him on his way to school, on his way back, on the train, coming out of the alley all beaten up, being dragged into the alley by Momota and even pictures of him entering his own house. It was incredibly surreal to suddenly be faced with all these pictures that he hadn’t known had been taken. It was a serious violation of privacy, he was a little disturbed but not surprised. It made everything click together. What did surprise him was that although he had taken all these pictures of Ouma, he hadn’t taken any close up. They hung around each other now, so why hadn’t Saihara taken any new pictures? It wouldn’t be strange for him to take pictures of or with his friends, it was almost as if he lost interest in taking the pictures once they really did meet. He almost felt offended, though he knew it was completely the wrong thing to feel at a time like this.

What he did notice were pictures of another person, someone Ouma didn’t recognise. They weren’t the same kind of pictures at all, they _were_ close up friendly pictures, some with Saihara in and some without. It was the first Ouma had seen of Saihara having any friends outside of Momota and himself. She looked Saihara’s age, so she must have been in his class or at least his year, but in each picture, it looked late out so it wasn’t like they were only seeing each other in school time. She was a pretty, blonde girl with cold, pastel eyes. From what he could see of her in the pictures she seemed quite attractive, which irked Ouma further. Attractive people wouldn’t hang around Saihara, he had such an unpleasant personality and pretty people had reputations to uphold. People were vain like that.

Wanting to know more he flipped to Saihara’s texts. He saw his own name, along with Momota’s, a few other contacts that seemed to be family and then a name he didn’t know. Akamatsu. He pressed the name to see what kind of things they had been talking to each other about. Upon reading their chat he decided she must have been the girl in the pictures. They talked about Danganronpa, Saihara usually leading those conversations, but also talked about other things like history and society and the people around them. Saihara didn’t ever mention Ouma or anyone matching his description or relationship. They spoke about much more varied topics than he and Ouma did. But they only spoke about Danganronpa so much because that’s all Saihara wants to talk about, right? Maybe his paranoia hadn’t been as off base as he’d thought. Maybe she was the reason he was suddenly wanting Ouma to role play as a girl during sex. The screen in front of him shook in his wavering grip.

 

“What are you looking at?” Ouma froze at the voice. Saihara must have just opened the door while he was lost in his own thoughts. The blindingly bright screen made what he had been doing undeniable.

“Who’s Akamatsu?” He decided not to hide what he had been doing. He could have pretended he was just looking at Danganronpa stuff, but why bother? There were things he wanted to know. He expected Saihara to be mad, shout at him or hit him but instead his expression softened and he began to talk as he slid in the bed beside Ouma.

“She’s a friend from school,” it sounded so simple, too simple for what it really appeared to be. “She’s usually still hanging around the school fairly late so we saw each other a lot, we only started talking recently.” Ouma could have asked him what _he_ was doing at the school late, he didn’t go to any clubs, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t have to admit to everything he’d seen.

“She likes Danganronpa too?” Ouma’s voice was flat, the question thrown out to move things along. He didn’t care about what she was like, he only cared about why she was hanging out with Saihara.

“Yeah, she’s not into everything about it but she watches all the episodes.” Ouma stared at Saihara, not understanding. “She’s really into the betrayal aspect of it,” he explained with a gentle smile. A smile Ouma thought that only he could bring to Saihara’s lips.

“Betrayal?”

“Yeah, she always says that ‘everyone betrays each other in the end, that’s life’,” he gestured the quotations with his fingers, “it’s just a lot more obvious in Danganronpa. She likes when something is revealed and everyone gets all heartbroken. She talks a lot about it, how people have always betrayed each other and how it happens all the time,” ah, that’s where the history conversations came from. “It’s pretty interesting!” Ouma didn’t like that at all. Saihara finding something interesting that wasn’t necessarily Danganronpa, something another person brought to his attention. He didn’t like it at all.

Saihara shared a few stories of conversations between Akamatsu and him, and about her dream to go on Danganronpa and be a part of some huge betrayal that tears everyone up. The kind that doesn’t leave the other characters, it haunts them right up to the end and puts everyone on edge. The whole thing made Ouma far more uncomfortable than it should have.

 

Had Saihara become bored of him? Was he more interested in this new girl? Why was he upset? He detested everything about Saihara, he was just making the best of a bad situation, that’s all.

They finally settled to sleep, Saihara’s warm, heavy arm draped across Ouma’s middle. The heat of Saihara’s body prickled down his back. It should have been comforting to have someone so close, he’d never had someone sleep beside him, but instead he was filled with some sort of dread. A cold almost throbbing feeling between his stomach and chest.

When did it become like this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally wrote this I got super invested in the trial on TV and had written it in full detail, had to go through and cut that down since it was not supposed to be the focus! Still ended up a pretty long chapter! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	10. Free Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Are we…boyfriends?'

Saturday morning was lazy. The sun had filtered in through the curtains, but neither made any attempts to leave the bed until around 10am when Saihara finally decided it was time to get up. Ouma had been awake long before, but hadn’t tried to leave. He found he enjoyed staying in bed longer than needed, even with the other’s dead arm anchoring his small body down. It was a relief to have woken up and realised he wasn’t at home. The pair hadn’t been cuddled up, other than Saihara’s arm being draped across Ouma’s middle, there had still been space between their bodies. It was still warm and somehow comforting to have the other so near.

Saihara had headed to the kitchen first to get breakfast ready, pulling on a dressing gown as he went. Ouma had opted to stay behind in the bedroom, wanting to get changed out of the t-shirt. It had been fine for sleeping in, but it was too short to comfortably move around in. He grabbed his school uniform from the ground dressing himself quickly. He left the jacket off, as if that made it more like casual wear.

They ate breakfast quickly while watching some chat show that recapped the events of last night’s Danganronpa episode. Saihara had recorded it since it aired live in the early hours of the morning, and was repeated at various times throughout the week. He always recorded the first showing of it and watched it the next morning, and then again in the week if there was nothing else on. Ouma noted that Saihara always distracted himself from whatever he was doing. Watching TV while eating, for example. Ouma was just grateful to have yet another meal provided for him, but Saihara clearly took that for granted, instead treating eating like a chore and finding something enjoyable to do at the same time. Saihara distracted himself frequently when they were together too, so was it the same?

 

Ouma hadn’t stayed at Saihara’s for long, concerned that he would already have hell to pay back at home, not wanting to make it any worse.

He was right, it was hell.

Screams and shouts of ‘where the hell were you?’ and they had the gall to act like they were ‘so worried’. Ouma knew the truth, they hadn’t really been _worried_ about him, they had just been annoyed that there was no one to vent at. They’d probably torn each other apart while he hadn’t been there, so now they were desperate to get at him. Somewhere among the pushing and shoving, the hits and insults, he had thought to himself whether it had been worth it.

Once he had finally been able to drag himself into the solitude of his tiny room, he decided that yes, it had been worth it. At least Saihara cared a little about him, right? Cared enough about him to fuck him at least. That had to be worth something. Bought him meals, made him food, held him close, of course it was worth something! He had Saihara exactly where he wanted him. It had been his doing, after all, to make Saihara need him and it had worked! The pulsing heat and throbbing pain of his agitated leg wound reminded him of what he had done for Saihara, and how much Saihara still owed him. How much Saihara _must_ love him. Surely Saihara couldn’t bear to be without him, having given him everything he could have ever wished for.

 

Everything had gone back to normal by Monday, as if nothing had ever happened. Just another week that meant nothing until Friday came around again. The cycle was maddening. Chapter 3 would be beginning, meaning it would be another dull character building and motive set up episode. Just a build up for the double kill. He had stopped caring about the characters in Danganronpa a long time ago, in the original series they had been interesting but as the seasons went on and on with the same themes every time it had lost its charm. Now it was just a bunch of murder crazed teenagers mesmerized by limelight. None of them mattered, and none of them would leave. As soon as someone joined Danganronpa that was it, they were out of society and destined to die one way or another. That’s why it was such a great show. It removed the scum of humanity publicly without consequence. And everybody loved it! An awful way of getting rid of horrible people for the world to see. _That_ was why Ouma loved Danganronpa. It wasn’t the same as Saihara, it wasn’t the same as lots of people who just lusted after violence. If anything, it was the opposite of them. He didn’t enjoy the journey, it was all about the destination.

No dinner or breakfast dates with Saihara were made that week. Saihara didn’t extend an invitation like he normally did, and Ouma wasn’t about to plead. Saihara should be the one begging for his time, not the other way around. He was probably too busy texting his new best buddy, Akamatsu. It was frustrating in a way he didn’t quite understand.

 

That week even Friday was boring. An anti-climax to the bland week. He’d met with Saihara after school, they’d talked Danganronpa on their way to his, watched the episode with the same snacks on the same sofa. The episode had been as lame as he had envisioned. Saihara on the other hand was invested in the characters and had been spouting his usual nonsense theories and things he had seen online. Ouma didn’t care. These free time episodes were always the worst. The motive had been just another rehash as well, hints that they had all already been classmates in the form of photos and diary entries. But some of these hints had clues suggesting something sinister had been at hand, something dangerous that some of their ‘classmates’ had been involved in. They all had different pieces of information and not everyone was willing to share what they had been given leading to distrust and paranoia within the group. Boring.

Saihara had been entranced by their stories, reactions and the motive itself. Dragged in by all things Danganronpa. Ouma had listened to him rant his feelings about the episode and then their night was over. A quick peck at the door was all he was given before it was slammed to a close in front of him.

Free time episodes sucked.

 

The cycle of another week began again, and Ouma was frustrated. What was it he even wanted from Saihara now? What did he feel for him? Did he feel anything? He let out a groan, burying his head in his locker. He was only around Saihara because of Momota’s deal. Then he was only satisfying Saihara’s romantic desire so that Saihara would do things for him. Saihara _had_ been doing things that benefitted him but he was putting in way more than Saihara was giving back. His cut still wasn’t completely healed, it remained red and sore though it had started to get better. It was smaller, at least. The cuts on his chest had healed to scabs which barely remained. Saihara had to step it up. But those pictures still bothered him. Had Saihara lost interest? Did he expect Ouma to do _more_ before he started paying it back properly? What did that loser think he was worth?

“You alright?” a light-hearted voice chuckled behind him. Spinning around quickly, the hallway lights blinding in comparison to the quiet darkness of his locker, his eyes blearily focussed in on the tall green haired man speaking to him. His slight outburst must have gained his attention, giving him an opening to approach and talk. No one else would even have looked twice at him.

“I’m fine,” he sighed, still clearly irritated.

“Hey, something has to be up to have you hiding like that,” he laughed, nothing but a pure cheerfulness across his face. Nothing sinister.

“Ah, it’s just,” he had started talking without coming up with anything convincing to say. Obviously, he couldn’t actually share what was going on, but it just led to him looking like a stuttering mess in front of his upperclassman. Though he was sure the handsome boy was probably used to that. It wasn’t like Ouma was praised as being particularly socially adept either. “I-I’m just annoyed! A friend did something that, that annoyed me,” he couldn’t think of anything in time, so just settled for a vague way to phrase his actual reasoning for being upset. As the words left his mouth, he was surprised by how _normal_ the concern sounded. Amami had widened his round eyes too, had he been expecting something weirder? Why would he have confided in this stranger with anything heavier than that?

“Oh really, what did they do?” Amami kept up the conversation naturally, and sounded like he could actually be interested in what Ouma’s problem was. Maybe he was just the kind of guy that liked to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. This time Ouma let himself think before he spoke. He definitely couldn’t be honest with this one, _I do all this weird sex stuff with some guy but he doesn’t seem to appreciate it at all!_ How could he phrase something like that to sound not like _that_?

“He never pays attention to me when we hang out anymore,” he finally settled on his story, “he’s always more interested in whatever’s going on in Danganronpa.” He spat the name of the show, crossing his arms across his chest for effect.

“Danganronpa huh?” Amami’s tone dropped at the mention of the show, his grin falling to a scowl. “People really lose themselves to that show, I know what it’s like.” Ouma was shocked by the sudden confession, was Amami revealing something personal about himself? He had no idea that the popular boy didn’t like everyone’s beloved Danganronpa, did the people that hung themselves off of him know too? “If you want my opinion, I’d drop him.” The statement was confident, final. It sounded so serious coming from the boy who was usually all smiles and sunshine around the rest of his peers. Maybe there was something about Ouma that brought out the worst in people? Still, the advice was given with good intention.

“Thanks,” Ouma carefully whispered back, still reeling from surprise and unsure what to do with that information.

“Sorry, it probably isn’t my place to say anything like that,” suddenly his face was bright again, a hand reached back to scratch his head bashfully. “I just got caught up with it, rang a little close to home maybe.”

“It’s fine,” Ouma quickly assured him, “I, uh, thanks for telling me what you’d do, it’s helpful.” All the same, dropping Saihara wasn’t an option unless he wanted to face Momota’s wrath again. He waved goodbye to Amami and continued with his day.

The boring days weren’t _all_ the same, he supposed.

 

There had been no invitation again by Wednesday, but Ouma was determined not to care. He didn’t need Saihara, Saihara needed him. He could ask and get Saihara to pay like he had the first time, but Saihara should be the one falling over himself to please Ouma. Ouma shouldn’t even have to think about these things. He did however get a text from Saihara on Wednesday posing an odd question.

‘Are we…boyfriends?’ The question had grated at Ouma, and he’d shoved his phone away angrily, steaming over a response to something like that. It wasn’t just the question, it was the way it had been sent. The ellipsis suggested hesitation, hesitation suggested negativity. It looked like it reflected that Saihara didn’t _want_ that to be true. And even if he did, the fact that he had to ask at all made Ouma’s answer a certainty.

He retrieved his phone after a few classes had gone by and jabbed back his reply.

‘No.’

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, even after he’d sent it. Why had Saihara even asked? Had that Akamatsu girl asked him out and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t accidentally in a relationship with the guy he was fucking first? He could feel his eyes well with heated liquid fury, but he blinked back the tears. Was he upset? Why would he be? He was the one saying no! _He_ didn’t want to be Saihara’s boyfriend, that guy was disgusting, obsessive, weird and everything awful! He certainly didn’t like Saihara like that, Saihara was just useful, nothing more. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, he almost didn’t want to check it.

‘Okay, just making sure. See you Friday’ It seemed his answer didn’t change anything. But why did he ask? Why didn’t he sound like he cared? Ouma ground his teeth together, he was just constantly so annoyed at the other boy. Why was he making him feel like this? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a faster chapter this week, going to start getting into the meat of the fic in the next few chapters so look forward to that!  
> Hope you enjoyed!


	11. Lovers' Quarrels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was nervous that his answer would somehow change the comfortable routine he had set up with Saihara. Sure, it was sometimes boring, it was usually weird, but it was something. Something that wasn’t being ignored, being put down, being tossed around and hurt over and over again, it was something completely different.

From the moment he had received that irritating text on Wednesday, a tight knot had formed in the small boy’s stomach, and for once not just from hunger. He had managed to pin down what he felt though. Anxious. He was incredibly anxious.

He was nervous that his answer would somehow change the comfortable routine he had set up with Saihara. Sure, it was sometimes boring, it was usually weird, but it was _something_. Something that wasn’t being ignored, being put down, being tossed around and hurt over and over again, it was something completely different. Saihara only hurt him when he allowed him to. Saihara listened, even if it was only ever about Danganronpa. Saihara looked at him with something that wasn’t disappointment or pity. His own feelings towards the boy hardly mattered when that kind of world was offered to him.

Yet Saihara always got on his nerves, but maybe it was just like bickering between loved ones? He always heard that people who loved each other got into fights all the time. Usually they wouldn’t turn into screaming matches with fists and scratches and broken bottles like the kind he was used to seeing growing up, the kind that involved him later once he wasn’t a little kid anymore. People would bicker. Disagree, argue, be annoyed but make up again after and continue their happy little lives. Was the frustration he felt towards Saihara at times just like that? Lovers’ quarrels?  

His brow ached from the amount he must spent frowning during the day, trying to get these feelings sorted in his own head. He still thought that he hated everything about Saihara from his unkept appearance to his repulsive personality, but the other boy invaded his thoughts so frequently and so positively that Ouma wondered if he actually did like him. Or maybe it was just some sort of Stockholm syndrome? He was trapped spending so much time with the other boy and it was so much more pleasant comparatively to the homelife he was used to that his feelings had changed. That’s not how Stockholm syndrome usually works though, is it? The bad guys don’t usually make life better for their victim before the victim falls in love with them.

Amami had even approached him to ask him if he was still okay on Friday morning. His expression really must have looked sour, he hadn’t even realised that he’d been pulling a face at all. It felt a little nice to have someone looking out for him a bit though, it really wasn’t something he was used to. Someone older and strong and popular checking on him, it was kind of like having a nice older brother. A very attractive older brother. Maybe not like a brother at all then, Ouma decided it was better to rid himself of those thoughts very quickly before he started treading on _strange_ ground. It was like having a caring friend. Though he knew better than to really consider Amami a friend. He was sure his classmates would have a fit if they heard him refer to the upperclassman as a ‘friend’. But regardless of what kind of title it was given, it was still good. Very few things in his life could be classed as just completely ‘good’, but this was.

 

Ouma’s heart had nearly skipped a beat when he saw Saihara waiting for him just like always by the alley, he honestly hadn’t been sure whether he would show up or not and somehow it was more surprising to him that Saihara had come like he said he would. Ouma wondered if he was just used to being let down by people. They greeted and headed to Saihara’s just the same as always, nothing different. Ouma gave a silent sigh of relief, realising he may have just been working himself up for nothing all this time. It would have certainly been nice if that were the case.

But that would have been too easy.

Ouma had frozen in place while Saihara had carried on rambling as if nothing was wrong. They were almost at the door to his building, Ouma had just got himself to believe that everything was fine and exactly the same as always when he had seen something very different.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Saihara finally noticed Ouma hadn’t kept up alongside him, instead stopped in his tracks a few steps behind, wide eyes locked forwards. His own followed to where the smaller boy was looking, and upon realisation gave a stiff, awkward laugh. “Ah, I didn’t tell you, did I? Momota-kun’s watching with us today.” Ouma shifted his gaze to Saihara’s smiling face, a face that suggested nothing amiss.

Why was he here? His mouth wouldn’t open, his voice wouldn’t speak the words he wanted desperately to say. Was it fear that had taken a hold of him and refused to let him move or do _anything_? What did he even have to be afraid of? He was doing what Momota had asked, he was being friends with Saihara. What if Saihara had been upset about his answer to the text, and now Momota was being set on him? Did he fail some kind of test? His mind raced, but finally his stunned paralysis lifted and he was able to walk with Saihara again. Momota gave a gruff hello to the pair and the three headed to Saihara’s apartment.

 

Tense couldn’t even begin to describe how Ouma felt in the presence of the two of them. Snacks were laid out as always, Momota not waiting to snatch up a few bags and start loudly chewing. The loveseat was _really_ not big enough for 3, especially when one of them was as broad as Momota. They had still crammed on there, insisting that since Ouma was so small they could all fit. Because of this reasoning he had been selected for the middle spot and his thin body cried out in discomfort between them. But he wouldn’t complain, he would just sit there and let himself be somewhat crushed between their bodies. He didn’t know what kind of fury would be unleashed on him if he did speak up.

“So, 2 people are going to get killed in this one, yeah?” Momota broke the silence first, shoving down a half-eaten pack of crisps and leaning back into the sofa, the movement shifting Ouma and reminding him that he had no hope of remaining in any semi-comfortable position.

“Yeah, chapter 3 murders are usually really interesting too, the killer always does something to obscure some fact about it like time of death, murder weapon,” Saihara’s excited ramble was cut short.

“Whatever, don’t care about all that finding the killer crap, I just want to see some bodies,” Momota shrugged. His reason for liking Danganronpa was all about seeing the violence too then, unsurprising really. Ouma tried to well up the courage to speak, he couldn’t just spend the whole night in frightened silence, that would be pathetic.

“W-what about the executions? Do you like those too, or just, just the murders?” he felt himself lose his nerve as his voice wavered and tongue tripped over his words. He almost flinched under Momota’s dark magenta glare.

“The executions are too artificial for me, I just like to see people pitted against people,” Ouma was surprised that he actually got a response, and it wasn’t angry or annoyed, it was just a conversation. Ouma had never considered that he’d be able to have anything resembling a conversation with his bully, but here it was. The twisting apprehension was still ever present in his gut and throat, but at least he felt less like Momota would lash out at him if he did anything.

“Honestly I’m not really even into this shit,” Momota continued after a pause, maybe wanting to defend himself? “The murders are the only thing I find remotely enjoyable about this show.” Ouma could almost feel Saihara’s annoyance radiating from his body.

“At least there’s something for everyone, Danganronpa really is great,” Saihara finally settled on gushing, a slight sharp edge to his words. Momota gave a satisfied smirk and went back to his snacking. Momota just liked pressing people’s buttons then? Makes sense for someone like him, he could piss people off and if they snap, he gets justification for using his fists. The three went silent as the theme music began.

 

After what felt like an eternity of soaking up residual body heat from the two boys surrounding him, the episode was over. Two bodies were found, the jumpy ultimate jeweller was discovered hanged from his own intricately decorated scarf, and the ultimate choreographer was found cut up in multiple pieces alongside a bloody chainsaw from the greenhouse room.

The ultimate escape artist had been behaving oddly after finding the first body, and was rendered completely dumbstruck by the second, much gorier, murder scene. She was definitely suspicious, it reminded Ouma of chapter 3 from the original game where the culprit of the double murder displayed strange behaviour for the entire chapter, making the trial incredibly anti-climactic. Meaning that her acting oddly meant that she was in the clear for being the murderer. Predictably Saihara didn’t connect those dots and in his immediate theory crafting was certain that the ultimate escape artist was the only one who could have committed both crimes. He had leaned in close to Ouma, ideas spilling from his lips, face heated with the usual lust that accompanies death.

“Man, I was pretty disappointed just seeing some dude hanging, but the second body more than made up for that!” Momota roared with a toothy, wolfish grin. He seemed oblivious to the pair getting ever closer to one another beside him.

 

Saihara stopped speaking, and instead used his mouth to capture Ouma’s, the thrill of the episode getting to him. Ouma’s own discomfort grew, returning the kiss and letting Saihara deepen it, he felt his back pressing against the mass of muscles that was Momota behind him. Was this, was this okay? Saihara’s hands began to undo Ouma’s jacket, becoming more efficient each time. With a mouth full of saliva and tongue, he risked opening his eyes. He rolled them upwards, not interested in seeing Saihara’s gross excited face this close, only to be met with a more disconcerting sight. Momota’s harsh predatory stare. Not as oblivious as Ouma had thought. His sadistic smirk widened at the eye contact. Ouma immediately raised his hands and pushed Saihara away weakly.

“What the hell is this?” he squeaked as soon as Saihara’s lips had detached from his own, frail hands still pushing at the other’s chest. Panic surged through him. Panic and utter confusion. Saihara blinked innocently, as if he had no clue about what was wrong with this picture.

“Saihara said you wouldn’t mind,” came the vague response from behind him. A large hand grasped his hair, locking him into position as his low voice spoke again beside his ear. “I don’t really think it’s fair that _he_ gets laid but I haven’t got my dick wet in ages, I mean _come on_ ,” he crudely hissed the nonsensical explanation. Ouma stared at Saihara expectantly, hoping desperately that there was more to the story than that.

“A-ah, well,” Saihara sputtered, suddenly on the spot from Ouma’s staring. Momota’s rough stubble around his goatee scratched against Ouma’s neck, revealed from his partially undone and now loose jacket. Lips were placed against the skin next, Ouma jerking away instinctively but only feeling Momota smile with some sick satisfaction against him. His attention remained locked on Saihara, teeth gritted, desperate for more information.

“Well, uh, we’re not boyfriends but do we do, um, boyfriend things,” Ouma’s teeth ground together at Saihara choosing now to be so bashful about what they were doing. “So, well, if we’re not boyfriends and we do that stuff then it’s fine to do that stuff with other people too, right? Like, if we’re doing that stuff but we’re not together then you probably don’t mind doing it with other people.” What kind of explanation was that?

“Basically,” Momota’s mouth moved away from his neck to speak, “Saihara’s saying you’re a slut.”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Saihara hastily defended, though it was hard to deny.

“Then what _are_ you saying?” Ouma bit back, hating every second of being in the vicinity of his least favourite people, Saihara now included.

“Um, don’t you want to have sex with Momota?” the question hit Ouma hard, why in the world would Saihara ever think that? Ever? His incredulous expression must have been obvious by the way Saihara quickly continued. “I mean, we’re having sex but we’re not boyfriends, so Momota’s more good looking than I am by, uh, by anyone’s standards really so,” his already heated face flushed deeper, though Ouma was unsure why. Was it embarrassment from saying something like that? Or was he getting turned on by self-depreciation now? A calloused hand wrapped itself carefully and lightly around his neck.

“Yeah, don’t you _want_ to have sex with me?” Momota growled into his ear, an unspoken threat evident.

“I’m more surprised _you’re_ interested,” Ouma’s voice was far gentler than he would have liked it to have been.

“Don’t get it wrong, I’m not interested in you, I’m not into guys,” the correction was delivered with a tightening of the hand around his throat, “I’m just looking for an easy lay.” Were those words his own, or Saihara’s? What did Saihara see him as?

“U-um, if you’re not comfortable, I won’t be leaving,” Saihara suddenly interjected, confusion continuing to build in Ouma. He wouldn’t be leaving? “I-uh,” Ouma really wished Saihara could just spit out what he wanted to say, what did he still have to stutter about anyway? “Momota-kun said it was okay if I wanted to watch, and I do, um, I do want to watch.” And that’s why Saihara was so excited about this too then? He said he _wanted_ to watch, was that why he brought this up to Momota? More than having sex himself, did he want to watch other people do it in front of him? Why couldn’t Saihara just be a normal person that wanted to do normal things?

“So,” Momota released his hold of Ouma completely, getting to his feet and giving him the space to breathe, “I’m bored of this foreplay, or whatever the fuck this is,” his narrow eyes scanned each of them dangerously, “bedroom, now.” He finished, leading the way as if it were his own house.

Saihara looked over to Ouma with a weird face, was he trying to be concerned _now_? Did he suddenly care? Wordlessly Ouma heaved himself up, throwing his half-removed jacket onto the sofa with some of his anger, and made his way to the bedroom closely followed by Saihara.

 

It wasn’t that he wanted to do this with Momota. This was really the last thing he would want to do with Momota. He didn’t want to give the man that had given him hell the slightest bit of pleasure. Then why had he gone into the bedroom so obediently? It was out of spite more than anything. Because fuck Saihara. He wasn’t his boyfriend, and he would fuck someone else in front of him, whether Saihara wanted to see it or not. Yes, it was definitely spite. Of course, another part of his brain told him that Saihara wanted this more than any of them, he wanted so much to watch. By doing this he was satisfying another kink for Saihara, something he couldn’t get from anyone else. By doing this Saihara falls deeper into his trap, and becomes even less able to ever leave him. But that wasn’t why he was doing this, absolutely not. He didn’t want to give Saihara the satisfaction, he wanted to make Saihara jealous. That was the final line.

Another thought that came to mind as he tried to hide his trembling was that this was his opportunity to get Momota back. Momota was exactly the kind of person he hated most. The kind of person that didn’t need anyone, completely independent and liked playing by his own rules. There were no roles he needed filling by any other human being, everyone was disposable. Ouma didn’t think that he could make Momota need him for any length of time, which is why doing something like this would be a waste. Ouma wouldn’t be able to get anything out of it. But maybe he could use this as a chance to humiliate Momota. His mind raced with the possibilities. Momota could be under _his_ control for once. He would make Momota beg, and have him screaming out his name. That would make it worthwhile.

Momota had already started undressing, seems he didn’t want to waste any time or be any more handsy than necessary. He really did just want to get down to business. Ouma was only willing to go down to his underwear at this stage, while Momota went straight to butt naked without batting an eye. His body was totally different from Saihara’s, bigger, broader, masculine. The muscles gave his body a completely different shape, ridges and bulges instead of bones. It wasn’t bad to look at, it was just a shame it was attached to such an awful person. During this time undressing, Saihara had fetched a wooden chair for himself, clearly wanting to separate himself from the ‘action’. His murky eyes drank in both their bodies, gleaming with anticipation. His lips were shining and wet from how much he had been licking at them while unblinkingly watching them. Stalker through and through.

Was that what it was? Ouma was struck with a sudden realisation. Was that why Saihara had stopped taking the pictures? Did he find it less appealing to be with the object of his interest and more appealing to see them separate from himself? Did he like seeing Ouma surrounded by other people more than he liked being with Ouma? It made a lot of sense, thinking about it like that. Though it still filled Ouma with a bitterness. The things he’d let Saihara do to him, had they not been completely satisfying to him because of that?

He was shaken from his thoughts by Momota placing himself at the edge of the bed, no shame in displaying his naked body to the two boys. Ouma shyly flicked his eyes around the room, trying not to focus on anything for too long. Saihara tossed the bottle of lube from his bedside table to Momota, who flipped it over in his hands with disinterest.

 

“Um, what do you want to do?” Ouma fidgeted with hands, the question was so awkward but it was the only way they were going to get anywhere with this, and he already wanted it to just be over.

“Well I’m not sitting here for nothing,” his rough voice always made Ouma flinch on reflex, he wasn’t used to being near the other and not being beaten. “Get on your knees and get to work,” Ouma hated how it was demanded. Momota held out the bottle to him, “and do whatever you need to do with this, I’m not touching anything I don’t need to.” What a caring and passionate lover. Ouma took the bottle, he would definitely be needing it. Saihara still looked to be enjoying himself, someone had to be.

Ouma lowered himself to his knees in between Momota’s legs, the hardening cock in front of him much more intimidating up close. Momota still wore a confident smirk above him. Ouma had a difficult time trying to un-grit his teeth, his anger and anxiety keeping them clamped together hard. Saihara’s eyes wandering all across him, taking in every action, every twitch. Being on his knees wasn’t the thing that bothered him about this, he’d been knocked to his knees in front of the other man plenty of times before, but putting Momota’s cock in his mouth felt like such an act of surrender to him. His nervousness probably wasn’t helped by the fact that he hadn’t done this before. He and Saihara had just gone pretty much straight into fucking, no blowjobs or anything.

He figured he’d spent enough time just gaping at it, he didn’t want Momota to get bored. Or Saihara. He closed the space, leaning his face towards it until he was close enough to give the head an experimental lick. The taste didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would, just skin but a little saltier. Like sweaty skin. But it wasn’t too strong. He was lacking in experience but was pretty sure he would want the whole thing to be wetter before trying to suck it, so he darted his tongue back out of his mouth and against the head again. He let his tongue move slower this time, licking from the bottom of the head to the very tip. He swore he could have seen a shudder run up Momota’s spine as he flicked his tongue over the slit at the top. Good. He held the shaft with one hand and let his tongue work down from the head, dragging it all the way down the underside of his cock first. He could feel it pulse and swell under his hand.

He let go of it once he was satisfied that it was completely hard and adequately wettened. He needed his hands to deal with the lube situation. He continued to lick while he uncapped the bottle, spreading some of the silky liquid onto his fingers. His tongue focused on following and massaging the veins that ran down Momota’s length while his hand moved behind himself, quickly ridding himself of his own underwear which was now in the way, much to Saihara’s delight it seemed, and pushed the fingers against himself. It was difficult to relax, but there was probably no rush.

At the same time, he knew Momota wouldn’t wait around for him to start sucking, he’d been licking for a few minutes and his hands had been twitching as if wanting to grab his head and force him onto it properly. His free hand returned to holding the shaft as he wrapped his lips around the head of Momota’s cock. He tried to mimic what he had seen of blowjobs before and began to bob his head back and forth. He kept his tongue moving along it while he tried to suck and move, it was more difficult than he had expected. His jaw started aching early on, having to take it out of his mouth to gasp for breath. He knew he could breathe through his nose, but for some reason he just couldn’t get himself to do that. Keeping his teeth out of the mix had also proven challenging, he kept feeling them get close, but was able to keep them out of contact.

 

“New to this?” Momota mocked with a tut, reminding Ouma who he was doing this to. “Need some help?” He continued at Ouma’s lack of answer. Help?

“Um, sure,” he sheepishly gave in, “I haven’t done this before.”

“Seriously?” Momota howled, “Saihara just goes for it, huh?” At the mention of his name Saihara snapped to reality for a moment, hazy eyes coming into focus. “Lucky for you I’ve had my dick sucked plenty so I know what I’m doing.” Ouma hated the people that would willingly fall over themselves for an asshole like Momota, and tried desperately not to think about how what he was doing was comparable.

Momota stood, causing Ouma to back up still on his knees. The standing man gave a gesture for Ouma to turn so that his back was against the bed Momota had previously been sat on. Would it be easier to do if Momota was standing?

“Alright, open up,” he ran a hand against Ouma’s hair. Ouma did as he was told, parting his lips but not moving forwards towards it, he hadn’t been told to do that. Just following orders. He pushed his prepared fingers into himself, finally losing some of the tension he’d had. The hand on his head tightened into a fist, his hips moving forwards. Ouma closed his eyes, Momota’s grip was _hard_. He shut his lips around Momota’s cock as it entered his mouth, if he was good then nothing bad would happen, right? He felt the cock move back and forth in his mouth and against his lips, it was definitely easier when he didn’t have to do the moving.

Then Momota pushed in further. Ouma tried to pull back as the tip of Momota’s cock slid against the back of his tongue, realising that he couldn’t move his head with Momota gripping his hair like he was. His eyes snapped open, searching upwards but found no mercy in Momota’s cruel face. His head was forced closer to Momota, nose pushed almost flat against his hips. His mouth tried to swallow frantically around the intrusion, drool escaping to the corners of his mouth as his lips twitched involuntarily. His chest heaved with incomplete breaths and uncontrolled gagging. He could feel his throat clenching and unclenching, which probably felt great on the cock that blocked his airway. Finally, there was a movement as Momota pulled back. Deep, urgent breathes were taken in by his nose, weak attempts at coughs barely escaping. Then all at once it was back. Momota made small thrusts, keeping his cock deep in Ouma’s mouth, the head rocking back and forth against the entrance of his throat. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, dizziness clouding his already blurry vision. His eyes welled and spilled over, tears streaking down his cheeks like the spit dripping from his chin.

He tried to focus on his fingers. Tried to keep them moving amidst everything else that was happening. At least the fingers could make him feel good if he found the right spot. He wiggled his fingers around, tried arching his back, anything to try and get them to press down where he wanted them. Attempting all kinds of ‘come hither’ motions everywhere he could reach, he eventually found what he was looking for. He worked that spot like his life depended on it, muted groans rumbling in his throat.

 

Momota pulled himself completely out of Ouma’s mouth, releasing the grip on his hair. Ouma flung himself backwards against the bed, gasping and choking and wiping at his wet face with his dry hand in a frenzy. Everything hurt. His jaw ached, his chest burned and his throat felt ripped raw. All he could do was gasp and make sounds that he wasn’t even quite sure of. Were they sobs?

“Damn, you did pretty well,” he risked a glance up, the world was still spinning as he struggled to get his breath back but Momota looked like he meant it. His gelled hair had started to come out of place from sweat, and his skin looked flushed. “Most girls would’ve scratched or tried to bite or something if I’d kept it in that long, guess you really are desperate for it!” Ouma would have growled if he wasn’t so busy with the last of his coughs.

Ouma pulled himself up onto the bed, knees rubbed red from the carpeting on the bedroom floor. He’d finally managed to recover. He looked over to Saihara, who at this point had a hand tucked into his pants. He was enjoying the show then.

“Onto the main act then,” Momota purred, pouncing onto the bed and pushing Ouma up so that his head was in line with the pillow. He was really going to do this then? He guessed that’s why Momota didn’t just keep going in his mouth until he came, he was really intent on going all the way.

“R-right,” Ouma whispered unsteadily, trying to acknowledge that he was really going to let this happen.

 

“Turn over,” the demand was curt.

“What?” Ouma stared up, a face he never expected to be in a bed with. Instead of answering, Momota sat his body back so that he was leaning back on his knees and grabbed Ouma’s middle. He turned him over so that his front was against the bed. Momota was strong and Ouma was light, so if Momota wanted to reposition him there was really nothing Ouma could do about it. He felt the weight on the bed shift so that it was all around him, and a hand clamped around his hip, raising it up. It was a degrading position to be in, ass in the air, face down. He felt his cheeks heat up with humiliation. This wasn’t how to was supposed to happen. He was supposed to be the one in control, Momota was supposed to beg! Instead he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t say anything. All he could do was be posed by Momota like a life-sized doll.

“Least I don’t have to worry about getting you knocked up,” he joked crassly, Ouma quickly understanding what that jest meant. He guessed if Momota knew that he’d only ever had sex with the virgin Saihara, then he could safely fuck him without a condom too. It just keeps getting worse. Without another word Ouma felt the tip of Momota’s cock line up with his lubricated entrance, and push forward. There was no gentle easing, his strong hands held Ouma’s hips still while he thrust straight in all the way. Ouma gripped the pillow tight and buried his face in the fabric, muting any sounds he would have made. He had _not_ used enough lube he decided, and Momota was way too rough. The heat of the body behind him moved all around, one hand remaining on his hip, keeping it raised as he thrusted in, the other near his shoulder digging into the soft bed. Ouma decided that he didn’t like Momota’s body, he preferred Saihara’s. Saihara’s was smoother, it wasn’t so invasive. Momota’s whole body was hard and heavy. It felt like it was all around him, triggering a sense of claustrophobia he didn’t know he had. The deep growls and grunts he gave as he slammed himself in over and over were far more animalistic than Saihara’s.

He pushed in deep, pausing for once, and moved the hand from Ouma’s hip. It grasped his face instead, tilting it to the side. His cheeks were squashed in, one eye closed and still watering against the pillow. The insides of his cheeks were forced against his back teeth, the pain was irritating but far less severe than the burning spreading through his stomach, hips and legs. That radiating pain from being underprepared really spread.

“At least your face is kind of cute,” he grumbled the almost complement, and returned to bucking his hips at an increased pace. Ouma tried to keep his own hips up, his knees were already stinging from the carpet burns earlier and now were hurting even more while he tried to keep his weight up on them. Tears escaped his open eye, dripping from the bridge of his nose to the pillow.

This hadn’t been the plan at all. He had wanted to humiliate Momota. He’d wanted Momota to need him, just for a moment. To beg and scream for him. Instead he had only given his aggressor more power over him, giving him full command over his body for his pleasure and his pleasure alone. He had obeyed and been the good boy he’d wanted. He’d gone through hell only for Momota to have taken what he wanted with no pay off himself.

At last he felt Momota’s quickened pace slow to erratic bursts, hot, thick liquid filling him. He pulled out as soon as he was done, leaving Ouma to collapse down onto his front lazily. Momota immediately started dressing himself, while Saihara reached for the tissues on his bedside table. Guess he’d finished up too.

 

“Alright, that was fun and all but I’m all done so I’ll see you around Saihara,” he huffed once he was fully dressed.

“Ah, I’ll see you to the door,” Saihara insisted, such a good host. “And I’ll see you downstairs,” he turned to Ouma, “you can wash up and get dressed and everything,” he explained, following Momota out the bedroom door. Ouma dragged himself to the edge of the bed and slumped down the floor, not bothering to stand. It felt like too much hassle, and like it could really hurt. He clumsily reached for his underwear at the side of the bed when something caught his eye. Something beneath the bed had caught the light for just a second.

Fuelled by curiosity, Ouma reached under the bed for whatever it was he had seen. His hand came into contact with a smooth, hard object. He tried to get a grip of it, but it was too big so he settled for nudging it along, closer to him. The frame of the bed dug into his shoulder at strange angles as he stretched his arm as far under as he could get it. He rotated it with each movement, realising it was some sort of box. A secret under the bed Saihara box. He hoped it was filled with something more interesting than porn, though given Saihara’s likes the porn box could be kind of interesting to see too.

The object was retrieved from under the bed, and it was indeed a box. A wooden box, but probably plastic made to look like wood instead of actual wood given the smoothness, with a little metal clasp. No lock or anything, it could just be flipped up and opened by anybody. He couldn’t hear anyone by the door, so he took his chance to snoop. Flipping the thin piece of metal, he opened the lid of the box. He thought he might uncover family photos, or Danganronpa merch, or porn, or something super embarrassing. But what he did find was nothing like that. It was never that predictable when it came to Saihara.

His eyes widened with shock, fear coursing through his body anew. He couldn’t stop himself from trembling.

Locks of dark, vaguely purple tinted hair; scrapings of dried blood in police style sample bags; bloodied plasters; even a tooth. All of these things belonging to him. The sample bags labelled as such, with his name and a date. It was a terrifying thing to come into contact with.  

Another realisation that dawned on him was that there was only one person that could have got these things for Saihara. Memories flooded his brain of the countless times Momota had ripped fistfuls of his hair out, the amount of blood he’d left in the alley and on Momota’s fists, how he’d find wounds he’d plastered uncovered once he got home, the time Momota had knocked one of his back teeth clean from his skull on a particularly bad day. Meaning Momota had _known_ about Saihara’s obsession with him before making that deal seemingly out of nowhere. What would he have done if he had never seen his phone charm? He didn’t like to think about it. Maybe he would have just been kidnapped if there had never been a convenient way to introduce them? But what was Saihara’s plan? If Saihara wanted Ouma to love him, then getting them to meet through Momota was never going to work. Letting all of this happen was never going to work. Was he being punished for something?

He snapped the lid closed and pushed the box back under the bed where he had found it. He couldn’t get himself tidied up and dressed fast enough.

“Do you want to stay over again?” Saihara threw out the question as Ouma flew out of the bedroom.

“No,” he blurted hastily, quickly backtracking to create an excuse, “no thank you, I have to get home tonight, uh, parents,” it was lame and he couldn’t even finish his reasoning, but he acted like he was in a rush and Saihara seemed to believe it. A quick kiss at the door and Ouma was gone before the door had shut.      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!   
> How did you feel about this new turn of events? Were you expecting any part of it?


	12. Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inside of that box was an image burned into the backs of his eyelids. How did he get that stuff? Why? Why did Saihara pick him?

He just wanted to be alone. He just wanted everyone to _shut up_. His ears still rang from the usual hell he faced as soon as he walked in the door of his home, a ringing that didn’t feel like it would soon stop. His shoulders ached from being grabbed so tightly and shoved around. His entire body itched, he could still feel hands tight on his hips, the heat and weight of another person all around him. Buried in his duvet he was exhausted, he just wanted to sleep but nothing would ease his unsettlement.

The inside of that box was an image burned into the backs of his eyelids. How did he get that stuff? _Why?_ Why did Saihara pick him? What did he possibly do to stand out? He was small, lonely, meek and utterly boring, so what was it about him that Saihara wanted to pursue?

Which came first? Momota bullying him or Saihara’s obsession with him? If it was Saihara’s interest then did he set Momota on him to gather that stuff? Did he set Momota up to make this damned deal with him?

At times Ouma had felt so in control of their meetings, in control of Saihara’s feelings but now he felt like Saihara was the mastermind all along. If Saihara did set that up, arrange things to make his life a constant misery, then Saihara was his enemy. If that was the case, then he regretted every moment that he’d spent with Saihara. Every inch a truly terrible person. Grotesque.

 

His phone buzzed aggressively on the floor beside his bed. The first text had probably been asking that he had got home safely, but he’d been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to even check. He didn’t want to check. He didn’t want to reply. He didn’t want to talk with Saihara, but it was probably more dangerous to ignore it. Usually he would respond to his messages pretty sharpish, Saihara had probably never had the chance to send a follow-up text before. The repeated buzzing grated against his muffled hearing, with a heavy huff he reached to check it.

‘Did you get home okay?’ The text shone against the darkness of his room. He unlocked his phone to see the other 3 messages he had received. All were from Saihara, who else would he even get a message from?

‘You alright? You seemed kind of tired when you left’ well no shit, he’d had _quite_ the day.

‘Did Momota-kun hurt you?’ Did Saihara even know what Momota was to him?

‘You okay?’ Frustrated with Saihara’s persistence he wrote a quite response back.

‘I’m home, went straight to bed, sorry.’ Suddenly the thought of Saihara made him feel skittish, the need to throw the apology on the end of the text overtook him. He had already known Saihara had been stalking him, but this new discovery changed things. He was no longer just some amateur stalker taking blurry pictures of him after school, he was a full-blown psychopath collecting his hair and teeth and keeping them under his bed. For what purpose?

With those thoughts invading his mind yet again, his eyelids finally dropped lulling him into a restless sleep.

 

On Monday Ouma made his way to school as usual. The weekend had been quiet like it always was. As far as everyone knew nothing had changed. Everything was the same. For everyone except Ouma. He kept reminding himself of that, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from his phone screen. If Saihara messaged him, then he would just reply like normal. He would know if he got a message like he always did. There was no reason to watch it in case something turned up. No one else knew that Ouma had seen the box. Saihara didn’t know. Only Ouma knew.

‘How’s your day?’ The same innocuous message Saihara usually sent him during the day. There was nothing weird about it, just a standard Monday message. Something still turned in his stomach while he stared at it though, everything screaming at him to ignore it. He knew that wouldn’t be right though. If he stopped speaking with Saihara then Momota would be back, and worse than ever after what had happened. As much as he wanted to cut Saihara out of his life now, it just wasn’t feasible.

‘Boring. Yours?” A standard Monday reply.

‘Same. Want to get dinner at that café again on Wednesday?’ Ouma flinched at the written invitation. It was normal for Saihara to invite him to eat on Wednesday, a routine that Ouma had started and enjoyed. It wasn’t every Wednesday, but Ouma usually jumped at the offer. Almost every time. This was one of those times where he was not interested however. He pondered how to let Saihara down. There was no way he could bring himself to have some pleasant little outing now after what he had seen. Nothing has changed, he reminded himself again, nothing has changed.

‘No thanks, I’m busy on Wednesday.’ Ouma didn’t even want to think about Friday. Their unavoidable meeting. He still had to come up with a proper excuse for Wednesday in case he gets asked for more details!

‘Okay.’ Saihara’s single word response sent a chill through the small boy, but it still wasn’t unusual for Saihara to message like that. He was pretty to the point when texting unlike when he was speaking. It was fine. Everything was fine.

 

Tuesday was much the same. Ouma went about his day, constantly watching over his shoulder as if something was following him. It was ridiculous. Saihara didn’t even go to his school, it wasn’t like people who didn’t attend could just waltz in without question.

‘How are you?’ The same brief texts every day, just like it had been the week before, and the week before that.

‘Fine, you?’ They weren’t exactly big talkers over messages so it was fine to leave his responses that curt. He didn’t want to say anything to start a big conversation, he wanted to spend as little time socialising with Saihara as possible. Wean him off. Ouma had originally wanted Saihara wrapped around his finger, unable to be apart from him, willing to do anything to please him. Now he just wanted Saihara to _go away_. But it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing was that easy. Momota’s deal really messed things up whenever he thought of any plan to break away. 

‘I’m alright, what are you doing tomorrow?’ Crap, he still needed to give Saihara a good excuse for not going to dinner with him. He had mentally flipped through a bunch of ideas overnight, but finding something convincing was difficult. It depended how much Saihara knew about him. Ouma had realised with a rising sense of dread that he had no idea. Saihara had known where he lived and how he got from school to home, that was the only knowledge Ouma was definitely sure that Saihara had.

He must have been able to work out his undesirable homelife though, Saihara had seen his body on multiple occasions spaced apart, he had always been marred with bruises new and old. Saihara wasn’t very good at connecting dots as far as his Danganronpa theorising went, but even he must have been able to work that one out. But family was an easy way to get out of it.

‘It’s my grandma’s birthday, we’re going out for a big meal.’ That could get him out of any meeting on Wednesday, breakfast or dinner. They didn’t meet in the week for any other reason except for the first time they’d had sex. And Ouma wouldn’t be agreeing to a meeting like that again any time soon. He could come up with more excuses.

‘Have fun!’ The text seemed genuine, the little exclamation mark at the end made Ouma envision Saihara giving a small smile at his phone screen as he hit send. An image too pure for a human like him.

In truth Ouma hadn’t seen any of his grandparents for years, he wasn’t even really sure if they were still alive or not. His parents’ families hadn’t been eager to hold contact with such irresponsible, disagreeable people. His parents were the only family he had any relationship with, and that was still two people too many.

 

Wednesday came about quickly. Only one more day, and then it would be Friday. He’d _have_ to meet with Saihara, as much as he didn’t want to. But it would be okay, because as far as Saihara knew, nothing had changed. Ouma hadn’t seen his secrets, and everything was the same as always.

‘What kind of restaurant are you going to tonight?’ Ouma shook off his concern over Saihara’s curiosity. It wasn’t a strange question. Ouma rarely had any plans for anything, so it made sense that someone would ask questions.

‘Italian.’ It was the first delicacy he could think of. Fancy enough to go out for, but still could be cheap and casual for a family birthday event. Leaving it vague, keeping his options open. Ouma was a little proud of himself for quickly coming up with something instead of waiting to message. Suspicion avoided. No need to overthink.

‘Nice, I haven’t had Italian food for a while. Tell me how it is after.’ Totally normal response. Ouma gave a small nod to himself, a discrete movement, while he read the message under his desk. Situation handled.

He headed straight home after school, dashing from the front door to his room, attempting to avoid as many obstacles as possible. He flipped on his light and sat himself on the wooden floor to do his homework. He didn’t have much in the way of hobbies or belongings so homework was a fine way to pass the time. If he did well at school, he would be able to get away from this house faster. He was smart, so he knew if he applied himself, he could still have a future yet.

 

The sky had grown dark quickly, his curtains were still parted but he was glad he’d already turned his light on. He yawned, already tired but it was to be expected with his current combination of hunger and worry. He would finish his homework, then head into his bed. Probably mess with his phone for a bit first before sleeping. A loud buzz snapped him from his cosy thoughts however, head instantly snapping to his phone. He snatched it up to check the message immediately.

‘How was the food? Are you back yet?’ Right, he was supposed to tell Saihara how his ‘meal’ was. He prepared to reply but another vibration in his hands stopped him. ‘What did you have?’ Nosy.

‘I had seafood pasta, it was good, we’re on our way back now.’ He kept his order fairly vague. He could claim it had a foreign name that he couldn’t remember, but honestly, he just had no idea what an Italian restaurant would call its menu items. He hadn’t ever been to one to the best of his memory. His answer seemed to satisfy Saihara from the silence that came after.

 

Stretching upwards, he climbed to his feet lazily. Bedtime. He crossed his room in barely a step and grasped the curtains in each hand. He stared out at their empty street, it was pretty late so no one would be walking around in the dark until later when people filtered out the nearby bars. The gentle yellow glow of the street lights in the quiet darkness was a somewhat calming sight. He imagined it being cold outside, so that he could feel all the warmer for being inside, about to wrap himself in his covers for the night.

He thought he saw a flash of light for a moment, but dismissed it as his eyes playing tricks on him. It wasn’t raining and there was no thunder, so there was no way it could be lightning he decided. He snapped his curtains shut, the plastic hooks scraping against the rail. He bundled up his pyjamas in his arms, ready to head to the bathroom to get all washed up for bed, but was interrupted by another startling buzz. His phone’s vibration alert was always so loud when he put it on the floor. Keeping his clothes scrunched up under one arm, he scooped up his phone to check the new message from Saihara.

He almost dropped his phone on the spot.

‘Liar.’ The word glared back at him, dripping venom, as the phone continued to vibrate in his weakening grip. A picture taken of him entering his home that day, there was no mistake since the image was timestamped. Another buzz. Another picture. It clicked immediately. The flash he’d just seen.

The picture showed himself staring out of his window, moments before shutting the curtains, the lights on in his room illuminating his face clearly. Ouma hadn’t seen him anywhere. Hadn’t seen him on his way home, hadn’t seen him out the window. He’d been so jumpy, how had he missed it?

He dropped the pile of clothes and urgently lunged for his curtains, the plastic screeching together as he pulled them open. Where was he? His eyes instantly located Saihara. He was standing under a streetlight, clad in his mostly black uniform, cap hiding his face. But he was standing under the _streetlight,_ he looked so obvious. He definitely hadn’t been there before, Ouma would have seen him. He definitely would have seen him. Behind him his phone let out another grinding alarm. Reluctant to tear his eyes from the window, he turned, grabbing his phone and flicking his attention back to the window. Saihara was still there, no teleporting. His gaze dropped to the screen.

‘You didn’t leave your house. Why did you lie?’ Was Saihara upset? Saihara had no right to be upset!

‘Why did you follow me?’ It was time to call Saihara out, he wouldn’t have known Ouma had lied if he hadn’t stalked him back and apparently waited outside his home all evening.

‘I suspected you lied to me, so I checked.’ Detective’s intuition, right? Ouma choked back a laugh, what a lame excuse. The sound reverberated in his throat, small gasps of what could have been giggles passed his lips. The backs of his eyes stung. What was he supposed to say back? Sorry? I didn’t want to see you? I’ve been avoiding you because it turns out you’re a complete lunatic? There had to be something he could play on.

Saihara had the feeling Ouma was upset in some way after he left on Friday. What could have upset him then that he would still be holding against him?

Perfect.

‘I didn’t want to see you, not after Friday.’ It was dramatic, and he still got to say a little of how he really felt. He could definitely guilt Saihara like this.

‘Why?’ Persistent, short questions fired back at him at lightening speed. They were both completely engrossed in their phones.

‘You invited Momota over to do that kind of stuff with me. You didn’t even ask first. I didn’t want to, but I felt like I had to. I don’t like Momota.’ Guilt, guilt, guilt. It made sense, and it wasn’t far from the truth. Maybe he would even get to find out if Saihara knew what Momota was to him.

‘You didn’t argue about it at the time.’ That was cold.

‘I told you, I felt pressured. You wanted me to do it and Momota’s intimidating.’ Playing the victim here would work just fine for him. He had plenty to complain about after all.

‘You look like you’re enjoying this.’ Ouma read the text over and over. He didn’t quite understand what that one meant.

‘?’

‘You don’t look exactly torn up, you’re smiling at your phone.’ Ouma felt his body freeze, his cheeks tingled with the smile he realised he had. He had been so pleased with himself for coming up with something, he had completely forgotten that he was still by his window and Saihara was still outside. His eyes shifted up, meeting the darkened glare of the other boy across the road from him. Time no longer seemed to pass. Cold, numbness spread through Ouma’s body as he continued to stare out into Saihara’s sharp eyes. Could the plan still work? Would the innocent, scared Ouma he was playing at being smile into his phone as he recounted his suffering? His mind went completely blank. What could he do?

His attention dropped back to his silent phone, the same message still shining up at him. Should he apologise? Was there another excuse he could use? He switched his focus back to the window, realising that he’d looked away.

Saihara was gone.

At least, he wasn’t standing under the streetlight anymore. Ouma scanned around outside, but couldn’t see any trace of him. Chewing his bottom lip, he gingerly closed his curtains again.

 

So much for being able to get some peaceful rest tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	13. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just get home.

The sun filtered in from under the curtains on Thursday morning. The curtains had been so securely closed that barely any light seeped in from between them. Ouma rubbed his still tired eyes, reluctant to leave his bed, and for once, his home. He couldn’t think of a time when he had woken up as exhausted as he felt that morning. He had spent all night jolting awake within minutes of sleeping, the shadows in his dark room forming human shapes looming over him. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. He just continuously woke up with the belief that Saihara was in his room. He wasn’t, of course he wasn’t, but his mind couldn’t accept that truth.

He still forced himself to get up and get ready for school, as much as he didn’t want to go. He wondered if Saihara would message him again today. Would Saihara acknowledge what happened last night, or just act like nothing had happened? His last message still read ‘You don’t look exactly torn up, you’re smiling at your phone.’ A stern reminder that it had really happened.

He slipped out of his house, careful not to wake the unconscious drunks he called family, and hurried to school. He couldn’t stop himself from checking over his shoulder as he walked, from flinching every time something made a sound near him. He tensed up whenever he heard someone with a similar voice on his commute. He knew it was stupid, that he really shouldn’t be so worked up, so afraid, but it was hard not to be. Saihara wouldn’t be able to do anything to him on the train. He wouldn’t be able to do anything at his school. There were always crowds on his journey, almost the entire way, someone would definitely notice if he Saihara did something weird. Someone might even do something to help.

What was he even expecting Saihara to do? It wasn’t like he was just going to show up, stab him in the neck and leave. Sure no one would be able to save him in time, but Saihara wouldn’t risk getting put in prison, especially if he really was planning to apply for Danganronpa season 53 like his phone password suggested. So, what was he afraid of? What _did_ he think Saihara would do? Maybe it was the uncertainty of it that made Ouma so concerned. That he _had no idea_ what Saihara wanted.

 

He tried to focus on school. Focus on anything. Anything that could busy him and stop him from thinking. His jittery behaviour wasn’t anything unusual, so it didn’t draw the worry of any of his classmates. Not that they would care even if it was strange.

Why couldn’t he just be left alone? He barely spoke to anyone around him, he made sure to always be a good student without being the top of class, hell he sometimes purposely got questions wrong when he was doing particularly well on a test just to make sure he wouldn’t get the top ranking. He didn’t want to stand out.

If he did draw people’s attention, then people would realise his flaws, they would see things that he didn’t want them to see. They would pretend to surround him with care and interest and friendship, but really it would all be pity. Pity, pity, pity. The thought of _those_ people, the ones all around him that fashion their desires and tastes to escalate their social standing, the ones that drool all over the killing games and then act like it’s so terrible, pretend like they care about the characters’ feelings while creaming over their tragic deaths. The thought of them adding him to their repertoire of things to care about made him feel sick.

Was Amami the same? The thought seemed to come from nowhere. Did Amami try to look out for him just to seem like a good guy? Making sure the weird loner kid is alright to seem more compassionate. Did he claim to hate Danganronpa for the same reason? Kindness on the outside would certainly help ones’ popularity. It was a bitter thought, but he also couldn’t help but think that Amami had seemed genuine when he spoke to Ouma. He’d sounded sincere when he stated his feelings about that show. That show had poisoned the world, himself included, but maybe Amami was different. Maybe he _really_ didn’t like it.

The thoughts didn’t lead anywhere definitive, but it was better to think about that than other things.

 

His phone had remained silent all day, though Ouma wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not. He was relieved to not have to deal with Saihara, but at the same time it filled him with dread. What was he thinking? His travel home had been the same as his travel there, still no sign of Saihara despite his constant checking. It should have calmed him down that he couldn’t see Saihara anywhere, but it didn’t.

He hadn’t seen Saihara yesterday either.

The last leg of his journey was the quietest, the roads around his house were mostly residential, full of the kinds of people that kept their curtains closed, living in isolation until the bars opened each night. It was definitely the most frightening. His brain kept throwing situations at him, situations that weren’t happening, situations that _wouldn’t_ happen, but he couldn’t make the images stop. If Saihara was going to catch him, it would be here. _But why would he?_

He raced to his door, letting himself in as quickly as he could with shaking hands. He inwardly cursed himself as he fumbled with the key, eventually getting it into the lock. Once he heard the solid click, he darted inside and closed the door firmly behind him. Being at home wasn’t much better, but at least he knew what would happen here.

By the time he went to bed it was still radio silence from Saihara. He hadn’t opened the curtains in his room at any point in the day. He resisted the urge to look outside since no sight would please him. It wouldn’t matter if he saw Saihara or not, it wouldn’t put him at ease.

Tomorrow would be Friday. He wondered if Saihara would be waiting for him in their usual spot. He shouldn’t go with Saihara, he knew that. He probably shouldn’t go to school at all, but that wouldn’t fly with his parents. If he skipped school for no reason, they would give him a reason. The thought of losing his mobility through a broken or even sprained ankle, leg or foot was not appealing. He couldn’t risk it.

He made his decision as he settled into bed. After careful consideration he would _not_ go with Saihara after school, whether he was waiting or not. He absolutely could not be alone with the other boy, especially with him as pissed off as he was on Wednesday.

 

Friday came all too quickly. Though he had slept better that night, still not well but an improvement, it had only meant that the night passed faster. The day went about the same as the day before. No messages came through on his phone, and despite his constant searching, there was still no sign of Saihara anywhere. It was like he had decided to leave Ouma alone, though he didn’t really believe that. It terrified him that he had no idea if Saihara was really around him or not. A fear that never left him throughout the day.

The final bell rang and he joined the crowd of students leaving the school. Often, he would slowly collect his belongings and leave with the second or third wave of students, but this time he was in a hurry. He wanted to be a part of the biggest crowd possible. Peering through the bodies he saw their alleyway meeting point, and more importantly saw Saihara.

He was standing there as if nothing had changed, shifting his attention between his phone and the people leaving the school. How was he already there? Saihara’s school wasn’t far, but they did finish at the same time. He was sure normally Saihara would just leave quickly and head straight for the meeting point, while Ouma took slightly more time to leave so it made sense that Saihara could already be waiting there ordinarily. But this time he shouldn’t have been able to get there first. He must have skipped the last class to be there waiting. But why would he think that Ouma would change his schedule? Pushing down the tingling apprehension rising in his stomach, he stayed close to the crowd and made his way to the train station.

His eyes darted around the train non-stop from departure to arrival. No Saihara. And again, as he got off of the train, he stared hard down both ends of the station. Nothing. There was no way they could have been on the same train. That meant as long as he went straight home, there was no way Saihara could catch up to him.

No matter how absolute his thought process had been, he still trembled. He walked quickly, eyes focused forwards in the knowledge that if he pressed on, nothing would happen. His gut still twisted and churned against the certainty of his mind. Just get home. He never thought he’d see the day when his home was viewed as a beacon of safety, but here it was.

Just get home.

 

The first thing he noticed was that his feet had stopped. He reached his foot out to take a step forward but it just wouldn’t. It didn’t go anywhere. The next was that he couldn’t breathe. His limbs flailed pathetically in some sort of panic when a sharp tug pulled him backwards. The force grasping at the back of his jacket, tightening the fabric around his throat, suddenly released. He desperately sucked in a deep breath, but before he could scream a soft warmth was pressed against his mouth. His eyes had instinctively snapped shut, but he could tell immediately what was happening. His attacker was kissing him.

Ouma squirmed, his back rubbing up uncomfortably against the wall behind him. The moment he moved his arms they were seized, wrists held firmly in the hands of the assailant at shoulder level on either side of him. Their bodies were pressed close together, Ouma could tell that it wasn’t Momota at least. The body was too slim. He slowly opened his eyes, the other person’s face was way too close but their eyes were open, boring into Ouma’s face. Moss eyes reflected the glare of the yellow lights on the street, giving them a primal golden shine.

Ouma stilled, the only movements in his body were his frightened tremors. He watched as Saihara’s eyes fluttered shut, as if enjoying the moment. His lips moved slightly, Ouma’s own mouth still frozen in place, lips parted. Saihara’s tongue slowly moved in, rubbing itself against Ouma’s.

He had no idea what to do. He wanted to thrash and bite down but he didn’t know what the other’s plan was. If he made Saihara angry, how far would he go? Ouma had to be honest with himself, though he was sure Saihara didn’t have it in him to kill someone, could he be completely certain? What if the risk of being arrested for it was removed? If Ouma’s body was found in the empty streets near his home then all kinds of claims could be made. If no one saw them, or if no one spoke up then he could be blame free. He would have no reason to be there after all, as long as Momota didn’t mention that they were friends in some kind of questioning. But that would be some thorough investigation. Saihara could make the body look like a suicide, and he doubted that anyone would question it. Even if he was beaten to death and the police looked into it the blame would probably fall on his parents before it fell on some kid from another school.

It was better not to fight right now.

He just tried to ignore the slimy intrusion in his mouth licking against the roof of his mouth hungrily. Tried to ignore how close their hips were while he was completely at Saihara’s mercy. Time slowed, but eventually Saihara pulled his tongue back to his own mouth, and parted their lips. Ouma watched Saihara’s face carefully as it moved back, eyes opening again. His lips curved into a fond smile, an expression unbefitting of where they were.

 

“What do you want?” Ouma barely even registered that it was his own voice speaking. His words were barely a whisper. Saihara tilted his head to the side slightly, like a confused puppy. A confused, deranged puppy.

“This is our time, isn’t it?” Saihara’s responded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Ouma blinked, lost in whatever logic Saihara might be using.

“Time?” he could hear his voice crack. Saihara was still giving him such a soft look.

“We should be on our way to mine,” his smile didn’t falter as he spoke, then all at once it completely changed. Saihara’s face drew in close, the brim of his cap hovering just above Ouma’s head. His nails dug into the skin at the sides of his wrists. Saihara’s eyes narrowed, his lips curled to his gums, bearing his teeth like an animal. “Unless you have another excuse,” the words were spat, Saihara’s face twisted in rage.

Ouma could feel his eyes well and sting with tears, he grit his teeth and tried to hold them back. Crying wasn’t going to settle this at all. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to _say_? How did this happen? The pressure on him from the intensity of Saihara’s glare urged him to act, his mind racing. There were a thousand excuses he could make as to why he needed to get back early, but none that could save this situation. All he could manage was a weak shake of the head. He didn’t want to go to Saihara’s, he _wouldn’t_ go to Saihara’s, he was so close to his home. Just a little more.

Saihara’s lips returned to a more neutral state, and curved into a small smirk. His eyes didn’t lose their aggression. He pushed forward, their lips meeting again but this time in a more crushing closed mouth kiss. Ouma tried to pull back, but the wall behind him halted any backwards movement. Their lips parted, and met again moments after. The quick, rough kisses were littered across his mouth, moving down to his jawline.

Ouma’s arms were jerked upwards suddenly, the nails digging into his skin cutting in as they moved. He felt them released for a moment, but before he could pull them back down both wrists were caught in one hand above his head. He struggled weakly, but his arms were already partially numb from being held so hard previously that he couldn’t get free. Ouma tilted his head upwards to see his wrists as Saihara’s free hand pulled against the clasps of his jacket, undoing them in only a few motions. Ouma snapped his head down, but the palm of Saihara’s hand shoved his chin back up. He tried to twist his neck to be able to move freely, but Saihara shifted and used the same hand to push the side of Ouma’s jaw, pinning the side of his face against the wall.

The small, furious kisses moved down to the side of his neck, a shiver running through the small of Ouma’s back. The kisses turned to nips, teeth pulling at the skin over and over. Ouma whimpered, keeping his mouth shut to stop the sound from escaping. The area on his neck was sensitive, the sharp unwanted pain unending.

“Please stop,” he finally pleaded, his voice wavering and slightly muffled by the force against his cheek. His tears were on the brink of overflowing. The pinching sensation from Saihara’s teeth didn’t let up. “Please,” he whispered again, desperate for Saihara to hear him.

 

That time seemed to do the trick, Saihara stopped what he was doing and at least looked up him with an expression like he was doing no wrong. The hand that was holding his face against the wall left, finally letting him move and stretch out his neck. Ouma attempted to speak again, but instead Saihara shoved his fingers into Ouma’s mouth. In surprise, Ouma didn’t immediately react, the fingers shifting strangely around. Saihara’s ring finger pushed against Ouma’s tongue, holding it back towards the opening of his throat. He made a muted noise, realising quickly that the action stopped him from being able to speak, or scream.

He’d had enough. He tried to bite down, wanting to be free of this and just yell. Yell as loudly as he could. He didn’t care who heard, or if anyone did anything, he just wanted to get someone’s attention. However, try as he might he just couldn’t close his jaws around Saihara’s fingers. His ring and pinkie fingers pressed downwards against Ouma’s lower teeth, while his middle and index fingers applied force upwards, preventing Ouma’s upper jaw from lowering and biting. All he could do was breathe, the air audibly passing Saihara’s hand, and make muffled panicked sounds that no one would hear.

He twitched his thin body, hoping to get some advantage, but he couldn’t even kick at Saihara since he was already positioned so closely. At his wriggling, Saihara ground his hips down against Ouma’s. He hastily stopped all motion. Everything just needed to _stop_.

Saihara’s head was still by his neck, he moved in closer to the skin again, his nose pushing away the open jacket as he delved further down. He used his face to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, pushing the top he wore under his jacket down to expose the skin there. He nipped the area a couple of times, testing the grounds, before opening his mouth and placing his teeth against the skin. The patch of skin was heated with Saihara’s breath, and wettened as his tongue lapped over the area. Ouma could hear his own breathing pick up in pace as he anticipated what was to come, still trying to bite down despite his aching jaws.

Saihara’s teeth sank in, biting the area _hard_. A strangled sound escaped Ouma’s throat, muted by Saihara’s fingers and hand. He didn’t stop. His teeth pressed in more and more, the skin around the area tightening. Ouma could feel the pressure build and build, until a searing sharp pain exploded through him. His body frantically spasmed and twisted, trying to pull his shoulder and neck away from the source of pain but he was powerless. Completely powerless. The more he moved, the more he scraped against the rough brick behind him, the more Saihara’s fingers pushed into his mouth, making him gag. Tears ran down his face, the pain being the last straw.

 

The pressure was finally released from the bite. The teeth no longer piercing his skin. Saihara drew back, moving to look Ouma in the eyes. Ouma didn’t want to look at him, but the red staining his teeth and lips caught his attention. The hand was removed from his mouth, salvia stringing them together. Sobs caught in Ouma’s throat. Saihara’s face had flushed, looking pinker in comparison to the blood on him. Saihara rocked his hips against Ouma’s again, this time Ouma noticed that the other was hard. He was seriously getting off to this?

“You’re mine now,” Saihara’s voice was low, the statement was serious but his smile had returned, the hate leaving his eyes. Ouma didn’t speak, his breaths still shaky, on the brink of wailing. Saihara’s smile only grew. “Even without our memories, that will always be the mark of _my_ teeth on _your_ skin,” he continued, the words almost blurring together as he started to ramble. “You’re mine, you’ll always be mine and no one will be able to deny it with that. No one else can have you. You’ll be mine to the end, to the very end when I kill you in such a fantastic way. I wonder if your face will look like it is now? Don’t worry, I’ll kill you nice and slowly, I have so many plans, you’ll feel every bit of it! I’ll make sure. We’ll have so much fun. You’re so cute everyone will hate me when they find out I did such a cruel thing; my execution will be so gruesome and everyone will be so happy that I died but they’ll be so sad about what I took from them. Something that can never be replaced. I can’t wait, I can’t wait,” he repeated it over and over like a mantra, punctuated with gasps and something akin to moans, occasionally grinding his hips up against Ouma again.

Ouma felt a chill through his body, his veins running cold. The words echoed in his head, the twisted, sickening words. He wanted to get away, he _needed_ to get away. No matter how pathetic he was, no matter how much his life sucked right now, he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die. Which meant he definitely didn’t want to go on Danganronpa, the show where no one leaves, even the victors get caught in some kind of repeat game, or commit suicide. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to go on Danganronpa. He wasn’t like him _at all_. The only reason he was interested in Danganronpa was because it rid the world of people just like Saihara.  

“I want to kill _you_ ,” the words were whispered huskily into his ear, a sob escaping Ouma’s lips at the sound. “You’re my ultimate victim,” a giggle, “I can’t wait.” It had to stop. Ouma’s legs quivered beneath him. His arms tingled with numbness, he couldn’t feel his fingers. His neck still burned.

“Please,” he sobbed out, not caring anymore about hiding his fear or his crying, “please just let me go. I want to go.” Saihara gave him another odd look, as if he was seeing his tears for the first time. As if he didn’t understand why Ouma trembled under his touch. Saihara let go of his wrists slowly, almost reluctantly. Ouma moved just as slowly, lowering his arms carefully. No sudden movements. He balled his hands into fists and opened them again, trying to get some feeling back into them. Saihara took a step away, giving Ouma the space to move.

“A-alright,” Saihara stuttered, it was Ouma’s turn to be confused. Was Saihara offended? Upset? Annoyed? He just couldn’t tell, the brim of his cap pulled down to hide any expression on his face. Ouma took small steps, moving first away from the wall. He was hesitant to turn his back to Saihara, but he needed to pick up his schoolbag, discarded in his earlier blind panic.

He looked away from Saihara, leaning down and reaching for the handle. An arm hooked around his bent waist and pulled him backwards, off balance. He tumbled down, Saihara leaping atop him on the ground. He straddled Ouma’s waist, hands locked around his neck. Ouma’s eyes widened, tears still slipping from the corners and down his face. He wildly clawed at Saihara’s hands, a flashback to the time Saihara had choked him before. At least this time he wasn’t wearing gloves. But this time Saihara’s hands were gripped tighter, and showed no signs of stopping. He felt his nails scraping at Saihara’s skin, legs kicking uselessly behind him. He could only make useless gargling noises. He struggled, feeling the blood rushing to his head, his vision beginning to cloud. Saihara looked so happy. He was smiling, eyes bright. Laughing to himself.

“This is what I wanted, this is what I wanted,” Ouma could barely make out the words chanted breathily above him, he felt like he was underwater. Slowly everything faded out to dreary darkness, Saihara’s voice reverberating around his brain.  

 

With a desperate gasp air rushed back into his lungs, his throat felt raw from the force behind the breath. The world bled back into colour, his senses returned all together. His head began to pound. The relief was only momentary. A single hand returned, wrapped around his throat, his body too heavy to move against the action. He could feel hot, rapid panting against his ear. Saihara’s whole body was laid atop his, pinning him to the floor hopelessly. He tried to flail his arms, tried to grab or scratch or push, but his arms held no strength, shaking against any sort of pressure. If anything, his attempts to fight seemed to just excite Saihara more, his panting becoming high pitched moans. Ouma forced his eyes downwards, Saihara’s other hand held his hip in place while Saihara grinded down on him.

He felt the world begin to slip away from him again, dizzying and dulling around him. Was Saihara really just doing this to get off? To claim him? To keep him scared?

Why?

Why him?

Why _him?_

The nothingness that blackened his mind began to thin out once more, he become acutely aware of his own chest moving up and down with each wheezing gasp. His eyes blinked open lazily, the fuzzy world becoming clearer with each blink. He was cold.

Saihara was gone.

He laid alone on the ground for a while longer, wiggling his fingers and waiting for his breathing to calm back to almost normal. The throbbing pain in his head was the most immediately obvious. As soon as he moved to get up the sting from his shoulder returned. It had probably dried and started to scab while he hadn’t been moving, and felt like it had reopened once he did. His top stuck to the fresh wound as he hurried to redo his jacket. It wasn’t that he was confident that he was really alone, but more that Saihara had already done what he wanted. What else would he do right now? He would have already done it. That’s why Ouma felt safe enough to sit on the ground doing up his jacket and let his body recover a little before heading home.

He stood and dusted himself off, checking around for anything left on the street belonging to him or Saihara. Only his bag remained around him. His hand still trembled as he reached for it, grabbing the handle quickly and spinning around, facing nothing. There was no one behind him. No one was attacking him this time. He could really leave.

He wasn’t glad to be home. He would have been, if he had managed to get there sooner. But he hadn’t. His home had provided no sanctuary. It never did. Once he was alone in his room, though alone didn’t feel quite _alone_ enough anymore, he checked his phone. One new message.

‘I had a really fun time with you tonight! It’s too bad you didn’t come over though. Next time!’

He read and reread the message again and again, trying to get into Saihara’s head, trying to understand what he was doing. One thought forced its way to the forefront of his mind, no matter how much he tried to push it down.

_He picked me over Danganronpa._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I had so many really positive reviews on my last chapter, I've been super psyched! Thank you all so much for commenting, and I hope you all continue to enjoy what I have planned for this fic.
> 
> I will be updating next Friday as normal. Merry Christmas and happy holidays everyone!


	14. New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma couldn’t shake the image of Amami’s face before then. What had brought on such a look?

The weekend passed by quietly. Ouma didn’t usually hear from Saihara over the weekends, so it was normal. Though normal was becoming more difficult to classify when it came to his stalker. His actions had become so unpredictable, and that scared Ouma most of all. People usually followed patterns, it was easy to tell why someone was doing something and what else they were likely to do. Although he had known Saihara had been following him, although he knew Saihara was into some weird stuff, he had never considered that Saihara would be capable of all this. It was a whole new level, and Ouma had no idea what else Saihara could be capable of now.

The cut on his thigh had partially reopened during his struggle on Friday. It never had quite healed properly but Ouma tried to push that thought down. He just kept it disinfected and covered, that was the best he could do. The same was true of the pulsing, sore flesh around the curve between his neck and shoulder. The disinfectant stung a lot, but that meant it was helping, right? He had read that human bites were more likely to get infected than dog bites, so he would have to take care of that wound as best he could. He would need to get some more disinfectant soon too. There were other things in the house he could use in a pinch, alcohol was used for treating wounds in the past, probably a strong spirit like vodka or whiskey could help, but it would be best if he could get a hold of some money and buy the real thing.

The hardest injuries to hide had been the deep bruising around his wrists and throat. Dark purples and greens swirled around the areas where Saihara’s crazed hands had been wrapped, his grip never wavering. The least of his worries, however, was the small scrape he had found on his face along his cheekbone. He worked out that it must have been from when his face was pushed against the brick wall. He traced his finger along the graze, feeling the small flaps of loose skin. The area was sensitive, it almost tickled to touch.

Like anyone, Ouma always found himself absentmindedly poking at bruises, the dull twang of pain somehow amusing and far less severe than whatever had brought them on. These bruises were large, so he had found himself a few times holding tightly onto his own wrist, delighting in the sensation. However, he would have to keep it in mind not to do so at school. He had hoped that the discolouration would fade by Monday, but instead he noticed in the morning that they sat more on the surface than before. He was silently thankful for the covering nature of his uniform, the high neck barely reaching the top of the bruising.

 

There was no communication from Saihara over the course of the day. It was both a relief and incredibly nerve wracking. Was Saihara mad at him for not having gone with him to his house on Friday? Or was Saihara just being quiet? He’d been silent for a few days last week, and Saihara hadn’t seemed exactly _angry_ at him. Though when Ouma thought back to Saihara’s face snarled in front of his own, he remembered why he didn’t want Saihara to be mad.

His sleeping hadn’t been any better over the weekend, after Friday it had been worse than ever. Waking repeatedly in the night in a cold sweat, checking the room for intruders, glancing out the window over and over. He figured it must have showed when Amami approached him in the hall between classes.

“Hey,” Amami’s smooth voice pulled him out of his ruminations. Ouma realised he wasn’t surprised by Amami’s interactions any more. It wasn’t exactly commonplace, but he wouldn’t consider it too far out of the ordinary now either. And it certainly wasn’t a bad addition to his day. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” he quickly snapped, too quickly he scolded himself, “I haven’t missed any classes for a while, have I?” he played his fast response off as a joke. Amami gave a soft chuckle, a polite laugh for his awkward, sudden playfulness.

“No, you’re on a roll,” he teased back, a smile tugging at the corners of Ouma’s lips.

It was easy to get lost in conversation with a natural people person like Amami. They drifted to a couple of basic pleasantries, ‘what class do you have next’ and the like. The bell rang signalling the beginning of the next class, Ouma quickly scrambled to retrieve the book from his locker that he had intended to pick up before Amami had started talking with him. Once he had it in his hands, he had turned to Amami to say goodbye, but he found the taller boy regarding him with a different expression. His round eyes looked at him softly, mouth dropped to something between a pout and a slight scowl. He met Ouma’s eyes for a moment, and blinked himself free of the expression, lips upturned in an easy smile once more. They bid each other their farewells, but Ouma couldn’t shake the image of Amami’s face before then. What had brought on such a look?

 

The rest of Monday passed like any other day, still no word from Saihara. He turned and searched every direction on his way home, almost sprinting the last section to his front door. He couldn’t stop his legs from moving. He didn’t want to stop them. His rush continued past the front door, and only ended once he was securely barricaded in his room.

It was rare that either of his parents would come into his room. It was rare when they _could_. Once he had learned that it didn’t matter whether or not he blocked his door, he would still be screamed at and beaten, he had taken to making it a habit. It made his room into an almost safe place. It would be perfect if it wasn’t in this house. Just a little zone blocked off from reality. Even more so now that his curtains were almost constantly drawn.  

He remembered feeling warm and safe at Saihara’s house when he had spent the night, that Saturday morning had been the closest thing to bliss he had felt in a long time. Now he felt foolish for ever thinking he could be safe around that person.

He didn’t have much in the way of homework, it was only the beginning of the week after all, so it was completed with plenty of evening time left. He was tired. He wasn’t even sure if tired was a strong enough word. But still, it was too early to sleep. Instead he went for a happy medium, he got into bed and browsed the internet on his phone.

He didn’t own much, but his phone made up for that mostly. He had been lucky to receive it, a gift from his parents one year for his birthday. It had been a complete surprise; his parents rarely remembered his birthday and he wasn’t used to actually getting things for it. He hadn’t celebrated a birthday since anyway.

He scrolled through a bunch of his usual sites but realised quickly that a lot were referencing the newest Danganronpa episode, the one he hadn’t seen. The episode was easy enough to watch online though. He settled into his bed and watched the episode with his speakers turned down low for the rest of the night.

 

Tuesday began in much the same way as Monday. Ouma stared at himself in the mirror as he fastened the clasps on his jacket, wondering if the bruises would ever fade or if they were just a part of him now. He prodded at the gauze near his neck and confirmed that it was still aggressively tender. It was frustrating.

Saihara was still completely silent. He stared at his phone listlessly, pondering if he should be the one to message first. He didn’t. He noticed Amami in the halls around the school, it felt oddly like he was hovering near Ouma, but he was always speaking with other people. Endlessly popular. Though he could have sworn he had caught those emerald eyes in his direction.

He gathered his belongings, preparing to head home. He wasn’t in a rush to leave with the crowd like he had been on Friday, he had no reason to believe Saihara would be waiting for him on a Tuesday. It was just a Friday thing. Definitely. He left the school like he always did.

 

When he felt a hand grab his arm he jolted uselessly with immediate panic, but instead of flailing or fighting or yelling he instead found himself completely frozen. He was yanked into the overly familiar alleyway with little hassle. It was almost nostalgic when he ran his eyes over the person that had pulled him in. Momota.

“I thought you were going to leave me alone.” The words were automatic, he didn’t even have time to think before they had left his mouth. He wondered for a moment if having spent an ‘intimate’ time with Momota had made him more confident towards the larger man.

“And I thought you would keep up your end of the bargain.” He hissed dangerously, closing the distance between them at an angle, cornering Ouma in the dead end. This was bad.

“W-what do you mean?” the shake in his voice gave him away instantly.

“You know what I mean!” Momota barked, lunging forward slamming his hands on either side of the small, trembling boy. He heard his bag hit the ground before he registered letting it go. His whole body flinched, muscle memory. “You lied to Saihara, didn’t you? Ignored him when he waited for you? Didn’t you?!” he yelled his final question in Ouma’s face, voice deep and hoarse. Ouma’s eyes stayed shut tight waiting for a safe moment to open them again.

“How do you know?” he whispered weakly, voice unstable with his shaking. The hands besides him balled into fists and pounded against the wall with a dull thud. Ouma’s body tensed again.

“I fucking drove him to yours when you dodged him after school,” he growled, face looming downwards at him. It finally clicked in Ouma’s head. That’s how Saihara beat him back without taking the train. Then, it didn’t matter how quickly he ran home each day, if Saihara wanted to be there before him, he could be. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t escape from anyone. Not Saihara, not Momota, not his family. Everyone had him beat.

 

Seemingly satisfied with Ouma’s guilty silence, Momota leaned his body back, fists still firmly planted in the wall. Ouma was glad for the breathing space. Momota’s face shifted, his downturned lips sliding into a victorious smirk. His tall, muscular body towered over Ouma’s narrow frame like a wolf over a rabbit. Momota clicked his tongue.

“So, now that you’re done being Saihara’s plaything, your free game now, right?” he drawled slowly, letting the implication of his words set in as one of his fists rose upwards.

“W-what?” Ouma squeaked pathetically, willing himself to be anywhere but there. The higher hand grasped a fistful of his unruly hair. Ouma winced as Momota pulled him to the tips of his toes.

“W-w-w-what?” Momota mocked, fake snivelling with his same self-satisfied smirk. “You know, instead of crying you should get down on your knees and make yourself useful.” Ouma snapped his eyes open, locking his gaze on Momota in shock.

“No,” he whimpered, yelping as a hard tug of his hair was given in response.

“Why not?” Momota’s face had moved in close again, “I’m just asking you to suck me off, it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve done it.” Ouma felt his pulse accelerate, but his fear kept his body trapped in place. He _knew_ he couldn’t fight Momota off. What was he supposed to do?

“No,” he repeated, voice rising in volume but still far from a shout. Any instinctual resistance had been beaten out of him a long time ago, now all his body knew was terror. The fist tightened, his hair curling around Momota’s fingers and pulling sharply at his scalp. He grit his teeth, eyes narrowing through the pain. His own hands lifted to try to push Momota’s arm away from him but to no avail. Any attempt at moving him just pulled at his own hair more.

“Come on,” Momota drew each word out, voice dripping with his smug attitude. He had already won. “It’d be over quick if you did a good job. Just suck me off and we’re done here, easy.” Ouma could see what was going on. Momota _wanted_ Ouma to agree to do it to get away. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering, when they both knew he could force Ouma to do it. It wasn’t like they would have any evidence of consent either way. What was his game? But before Ouma could speak, a new voice boomed down the alleyway.

“Oi!” Momota released Ouma, the small boy dropping to lean back against the wall, finally able to take his weight off of his toes.

Momota spun around to the source of the voice. The next moments were a blur to Ouma. What he remembered most was the loud whack of skin hitting skin, and Momota’s head being flung to the side with the hit. The large man stumbled, the strike unexpected, his hand cradling the side of his face. Momota scuttled off quickly, not wanting to deal with someone who could clearly hold their own, like the coward he was. Ouma’s first thought was that the chunky rings on his saviour’s hand were probably going to leave quite the mark. He wanted to see Momota’s beaten up face.

 

“You alright?” the voice was no longer filled with the fury it had held before. Ouma blinked up, time finally catching up with itself in his mind.

“Amami-senpai?” What was he doing here? “You helped me?”

“Of course,” he nodded, face serious. It was weird every time he saw Amami make such a serious expression. He wondered how many other people had seen it. “Anyone would have stepped in if they heard that.”

Heard that. Amami heard what Momota had said to him. Ouma fitted his hands together, choosing to focus on his fidgeting than Amami’s concerned face. The silence was thick between them, he could just about catch Amami nibbling on his lower lip in his peripheral vision.

“Are you okay?” Amami spoke again, seeming genuinely worried for Ouma’s wellbeing. “He didn’t,” he paused, looking away then back, “he didn’t _do_ anything to you, right?” Ouma could only blink back in surprise. He wasn’t used to someone asking if he was okay after something like that. Not stopping until they had an answer. Actually caring about what he had to say.

“Y-yeah,” he finally managed to murmur, hearing Amami release a held breath. “Um, I’m fine, really.” He patted down his hair, rubbing his hand over the aching spot where Momota had been pulling. It still kind of hurt, but there was nothing that could be done about that. It really was minor anyway.

“Thank goodness,” Amami placed a hand on his own chest with a sigh. “Did you know that guy?” Ouma stiffened at the question, picking his words carefully.

“I do know him,” he slowly spoke, “he, uh, he bullied me for a while, um, here,” he pointed downwards, attempting to gesture to the alley itself. “He stopped for a bit, but I guess that’s over.” The weight of those words hit him as he said them. It was over. Momota was back. He felt the muscles in his face twitch as he held back new-found tears. He didn’t want to cry in front of Amami, but it was hard. It was hard to think about all the things he had put up with in regards to Saihara just for the sake of their stupid ‘deal’, and now it was all for nothing. He had still done all those things. Saihara was still a threat, and now Momota was back and there was nothing he could do about it.

“I’ll walk you back,” Ouma broke free of his lamenting.

“No, that’s fine,” he began to protest but was quickly cut off.

“I insist.” It was hard to argue back against that.

“I take the train,” Ouma explained quietly, picking up his bag and dusting himself off. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to dust off, but it was what his hand automatically started doing.

“Not a problem,” Amami’s smile was back, and with it Ouma felt some of his worries lift.

 

At least he knew he was getting back home safely tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! And that you've all enjoyed the holidays!   
> Have a good new year everyone!


	15. Guarded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was it really out of sheer kindness?

Thinking back to the previous evening, Ouma could only smile at himself in the mirror as he readied himself for school that morning. He was almost surprised when he saw that expression on himself despite the wounds he had just finished treating, and the bruises in plain sight. He grabbed at his school jacket quickly, suddenly desperate to hide those slowly fading marks, and let his mind wander back to where it was.

In hindsight he felt a little bad for Amami. He had insisted on walking Ouma to his door, or near enough, but clearly Amami wasn’t used to being in neighbourhoods like his. Amami was well groomed and appeared to look after himself, he really stuck out as they had approached Ouma’s home. He didn’t look right with a backdrop of cracked paint and littered streets.

Ouma had committed to memory the sideways look Amami had given when they stopped outside his house. His eyes slowly scanned the building apprehensively, taking in every crack, the mould growing in the damp pockets they provided, the broken bottle-green glass that crunched under their shoes, everything. Amami hadn’t given him the look filled with sickening sympathy that he hated, instead he just looked up and down the house with a growing concern. Ouma had spun to face him and showed him the biggest grin he could muster, his eyes probably hadn’t matched his smile, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t be noticed. He had thanked Amami for seeing him back safely and had flown into his house, dropping his fake cheerfulness immediately, hoping that the sounds of his father’s shouts didn’t reach outside their walls.

 

During the day at school Amami had acknowledged him repeatedly. They had shared a brief greeting in the morning, which immediately threw Ouma out, but throughout the day there had been waves and small nods in his direction. Ouma hoped no one else noticed, if his peers did notice that he was getting all buddy-buddy with Amami he didn’t know what they’d do. He got by through not being noticed, Amami was exactly the opposite. His eye-catching sense of style and bright personality set him apart from those around him and caused them to gravitate to him. If people noticed them getting friendly, they would ask questions, they would pay attention to him. The thought was terrifying.

There was nothing new from Saihara. Ouma wondered if he had spoken with Momota at all since yesterday, or if Saihara had seen his face. He kind of wanted to message Saihara and ask, but also didn’t want to start a conversation with him. He really did want to see a beat up Momota though. He hoped the rings had left prominent marks so there was no mistaking what had happened.

He was surprised to see Amami waiting for him at the end of the school day, prepared to walk him home again. He kind of thought that Amami wouldn’t want to return to those run-down streets, but there he was.

“Are you sure?” Was it really out of sheer kindness? To stop him from getting grabbed by bullies again? Was he really that worried about _him_?

“Of course, it’s not very far anyway,” he felt like Amami could roll with anything.

It was easy to make light, meaningless conversation with Amami. Even though Ouma didn’t have much to say in response to questions like ‘how are your classes going?’, Amami had plenty to say to fill the gaps. He could turn any mundane thing into a story that was somehow captivating instead of boring. Ouma wasn’t sure what it was exactly, whether it was the way they were told or his exact wording, he couldn’t decide. All he did know for sure was that he could probably listen to Amami talk about nothing for hours. It was soothing, like an escape from the reality he was hiding from. No trace of malice or selfishness. No trace of Danganronpa. Amami was refreshing.

 

Thursday was much the same as Wednesday had been. Casual greetings from Amami, and a growing sense of dread as Friday approached. With nothing from Saihara again, he feared what he would try and do this time. What would he do if he saw Amami? Would he even do anything? How would Ouma explain if he _did_ do something?

His mind raced all day, the occasional cold sweat sticking his roughly cut hair to his skin. During more lightheaded, nauseated sections of the day bile burned at the back of his throat when the thought of Saihara burst into his head. He tried to push the feelings down, wondering if he was getting sick. He could really do without that on top of everything else. He wished his stomach would stop growling, it had been rumbling in full force all day, he was starting to get a few looks during class.

He wondered what he must look like to them. Short, pale, thin, messy, hungry, shaky, sweaty. He was a state. Hopefully they would come to the conclusion he just wasn’t feeling well too, instead of coming anywhere close to the truth.

He felt unbelievably grateful when the last bell rang, he just wanted to get into his room and curl up under his covers. At the same time hesitation built within him. As time passed it meant that Friday was getting ever closer, and he didn’t want that. It was inevitable, and he probably wouldn’t want to get trapped in perpetual Thursdays either, but that didn’t stop him not wanting time to pass. He gathered up his belongings and headed out slowly, which was as fast as his legs were willing to take him.

Amami had waited behind for him again. He was thankful, but also worried. It was weird, right? Nice, but weird. The thing that made it extra strange was that Ouma had assumed that someone like Amami would have after school club activities, yet he’d been waiting at the school gates each day. In his decorated hand this time was a shining red apple. It was almost startling, the red clashing with Amami’s green.

“Hey,” Amami greeted fondly, waving his empty hand. Ouma gave a nod, hurrying his walk so that he wouldn’t have to wait as long. “Want this?” the apple was raised to Ouma face, the slightly sweet smell almost paralyzing due to his intense hunger. Out of habit he stared wide-eyed at Amami as if the offer was a trap. After a moment of silence Ouma gave an uncertain nod, Amami plonking the apple into Ouma’s open hand.

“A-are you sure?” Ouma tumbled over his words, struggling to ask first, teeth itching to chew.

“Yeah, I brought it with me for lunch but didn’t want it,” he explained easily, Ouma not waiting for the end of his sentence to loudly crunch into the crisp skin of the fruit. It tasted fresh, still juicy and at that moment absolutely delicious. The edges of the skin cut into his gums as he ate, likely weakened from disuse he guessed, but it didn’t hinder his enjoyment one bit. Amami filled Ouma in about how his day had gone, just filling the air with comfortable talk. Ouma appreciated that he wasn’t asking any questions, though he was hardly paying attention to the details of Amami’s day as he wolfed down the fruit.

“Thanks,” he barely whispered once Amami had finished his last story.

“No problem, maybe I should bring in more, you must really like them!” Ouma couldn’t help but smile and giggle along with Amami, whose smile must have been contagious. He felt normal at that moment, standing with Amami on the train, laughing about nothing. It was a shame when they had to part ways again at Ouma’s house. He wondered if Amami would say anything if he could hear the yelling that happened once he went through the front door.

 

Ouma had woken up with a groan, the sudden realisation that it was Friday sinking in. He went about his morning routine of treating and bandaging his wounds before getting himself dressed and ready for school. He hated how careful he was being with the amounts of disinfectant being used, but he was running _really_ short of it. He needed to get more. He needed his injuries to just heal properly instead of staying red, tender, swollen and sticky. They were warmer than the rest of him, but he hoped they weren’t too hot. Heat meant infection, right? He was being so careful with them, he refused to believe it was that. He decided that cuts and bites were now on his ‘to avoid’ list. Way too much aftercare involved.

The day at school dragged on. His constant sense of doom probably didn’t help. Nothing from Saihara, Ouma guessed he would probably just be waiting like he was last week. Would Momota be in tow with his vehicle this time too? A shudder ran through him at the thought. Not again.

He made his way to his locker between classes to swap his book around. The textbooks were pretty heavy, some people carried theirs around all day, particularly people with backpacks, but carrying them around in his briefcase style bag didn’t sound desirable. His shoulder ached just thinking about it. Suddenly something lowered in front of his eyes, blocking his vision with redness. He yelped and jumped back, body colliding with the taller person behind him who held his ground with an airy chuckle. Ouma whipped around, recovering from his surprise when he saw Amami standing there holding another shiny apple.

“I come in peace,” the upperclassman joked, holding out the fruit as an offering. The corners of Ouma’s lips twitched into a slight smile, collecting the apple from the other’s hands.

“I’ll spare you then,” he tried to joke back, apparently successfully judging from the gentle laughter he received.

“Figured you could have it with your lunch, or as a snack during the day or whatever,” Amami explained with a shrug.

“Thank you,” Ouma nodded, sliding the apple into his bag. Though a large part of him wanted to tuck into it right away, he knew that would look bad. If he did do that, how many apples would Amami continue to bring him? He liked them, and hungry as he was, he would eat them even if he didn’t like them, but it seemed a bit much to keep bringing them in for him. All of Amami’s actions seemed to go overboard a little, not that it was bad.

“You good to walk back with me again tonight?” the question was phrased weirdly, Ouma noted. Had Amami intentionally worded it that way? To make Ouma feel like he wasn’t putting Amami out, that he was the one keeping Amami company? He was clever if it was intended as such.

“Yeah,” Ouma answered quickly, wanting that extra layer of protection today of all days. Amami began to turn around when Ouma piped up. “Oh, but, uh,” Ouma stuttered, catching Amami’s attention again. “Is it okay for you to wait after school? I mean, don’t you have any clubs or, um, anything?” Ouma twiddled his hands on the handle of his bag, feeling incredibly awkward. Amami tilted his head a little at the question.

“No, I don’t really do anything after school. Sometimes I help out with clubs my friends go to or run, but I’m not part of any so it’s fine.” Amami’s words rolled of his tongue easily, alleviating Ouma’s worries of ruining his plans.

“Oh, that’s good,” Ouma nodded, pleased.

 

The rest of the day passed a little easier. The knowledge that he wouldn’t be walking alone definitely calmed his nerves, and maybe the apple helped make him feel a little better too. The final bell rang and Ouma scurried along to the school gates to find Amami, which wasn’t particularly difficult. They strolled side by side outside of the school, Ouma cast a glance over to the alley where he would usually meet Saihara. Predictable as ever, the boy clad in black stood there, face coldly illuminated by his phone’s blue light, eyes trained on Ouma unblinking. Ouma felt his blood run cold, snapping his eyes away from Saihara. He noticed Amami had looked the same way, presumably to try to find what he was looking at. He wondered if they saw each other.

The conversation felt a little more stunted than the other days, but Ouma knew it was entirely his own fault. He was the one giving delayed, dead-end answers. He didn’t mean to, and Amami was attempting to continue conversation around him, but fear had enveloped him once more regardless of who he was walking with. The look he could just about make out on Saihara’s face had burned into the backs of his eyelids. A cold, vicious look.

He stuck close to Amami for the rest of the walk, especially once they got to the quieter part of their journey. Visions flooded his mind of Saihara showing up and grabbing him, or grabbing Amami, or pulling a weapon on them both or –

“Hey, you alright?” Amami’s caring words broke him out of his haze. “You were kind of spacing out there,” he hummed as if it was just another day. Ouma supposed that to Amami, it was.

“I’m fine,” Ouma could hear the tremble in his own voice, but thankfully Amami didn’t mention it.

He felt like he could finally breathe a sigh of relief once they got to his home, but the feeling barely lasted a moment. He was quickly filled with worry for Amami. What if Saihara had followed them, and was going to attack Amami as soon as he headed back by himself? What if Amami dies just for being kind to him? He felt his legs begin to quake, barely keeping himself upright.

“Everything okay?” Amami was always quick to pick up on things. At the same time, they had stopped outside Ouma’s home and he just wasn’t moving.

“Y-yeah,” he cleared his throat stiffly, voice breaking as he tried to use it. “Are you going to be okay getting back?” he knew the question sounded strange, having seemingly come out of nowhere, but he needed some sort of confirmation.

“Of course,” there came the laid-back smile, “I can take care of myself you know.” To emphasize he balled his hands into fists and punched at the air playfully. Ouma did know that of course, he had seen Amami make quick work of Momota, albeit a surprise attack. Prior to that Ouma had seen Momota as untouchable. There was no way _he_ could have ever fought back, it was impossible, but suddenly seeing the bully defeated had made him wonder if he could do more against him. Maybe Momota wasn’t so powerful.

Snapping back to reality, Ouma knew he had to move, he had to leave Amami and go home.

“Right, yeah,” he nodded, bouncing his weight between his feet before finally finding his footing and taking a step ahead, “well, I’ll see you Monday,” he cheerfully waved at Amami, flitting into and through his house.

 

His parents had been surprised that he had come home at a normal time, apparently remembering for once that he usually went out on Fridays after school. At some point when he was curled in a ball on the floor, taking kicks to his back, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. As much as he wanted to see the message there and then, he knew it would have to wait. The beating could be more rough on a Friday since he would stay in all weekend.

Once he finally got to his room, he quickly removed his jacket, neatly folding it. It had felt more suffocating than usual, warmer than usual. He hoped it was just that the weather was improving, and that it wasn’t the heat from his injuries warming up his clothing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, the flashing light reminding him suddenly of the message he’d felt come through earlier. In a rush he swiped open the lock screen and read the text. It was from Saihara.

‘Who was that?’ Ouma’s heart raced, breathing shallow. He slid down to sit, formulating an answer in his head. What should he say? He should keep it vague. Yeah, really vague.

‘He’s a friend from school.’ As he hit send, he felt the heat rising to his head. Would Saihara believe something as simple as that? Ouma didn’t exactly have friends at school, but he couldn’t change his answer now. He steadily crawled across his room, nearing his window. The curtains were closed as always.

‘You two were walking awfully close.’ The screen jittered in front of Ouma’s eyes, he couldn’t keep his hand level, the words blurring. Was there even an answer to something like that? Of course, they were staying close, he was worried about Saihara himself jumping them from the shadows!

He decided not to answer. The message was ridiculous and he didn’t need to justify himself to Saihara. Their deal was off now anyway, so he didn’t need Saihara around anymore. Any payoff he provided wasn’t worth the cost.

Though, despite his iron resolve, he was unable to fend off his curiosity. He rose to his feet, and slightly parted the fabric curtains, leaving just enough room for his head to peep through. He wished they had netting for their windows. His eyes settled on the dark figure under the same streetlight as before. He was almost glad. If Saihara was there, then he wasn’t off chasing Amami down. Saihara noticed the movement in the curtains too, their eyes meeting for a moment before Ouma ducked back down. He closed his eyes tightly, replaying Saihara’s movement over and over again hoping that he hadn’t been seen. Another buzz.

‘Why are you hiding?’

What could he do? Should he ignore Saihara? Should he reply? Should he talk back? What would get rid of him? He held his phone tightly in both hands, staring down at it but not typing. Minutes passed in silence, only the sounds of his uneven breathing and rapid heartbeat present in his room. The sudden vibration of his phone was muted by his hands.

‘He’s not allowed to have you,’ Ouma blinked at the message. He wasn’t sure Amami wanted to ‘have’ him at all, but what did that even mean? It made it sound like he belonged to Saihara, which he absolutely did not.

Words echoed in his mind, whispered heavily into his ear ‘no one else can have you. You’ll be mine to the end, to the very end’. Saihara’s voice played over and over. ‘No one else can have you,’ ‘you’re mine’. His fingers traced the wound under the bandage near his neck. It still hurt. It didn’t mean anything. He blinked his eyes open, unaware of when he had closed them. A new message.

‘Only I get to kill you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, didn't have much time this week but managed to get this chapter together! Hope you enjoyed it and hope you all had a good new year!


	16. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's familiar

The weekend was spent like any other, holed up in his room trying to make sense of anything in his messed-up life. He was long over moping about it, he’d learned years ago that tearfully longing for the things everyone else had didn’t improve his own situation at all. He worked out that all he could do was just get through it. Get through it and to his dream future on the other side. The future where he was independent and happy. The future where he was in charge of his own life.

Things were only getting more and more complicated. Already the life he’d hated before felt so much simpler than the one he was living now. Automatically his fingers kept opening that same text. He couldn’t avoid it, he just kept reading those words. ‘Only I get to kill you’. What was Saihara thinking? Was it even possible to guess? Ouma always knew Saihara was strange, but he did not realise that he was completely insane until it was too late. He was already trapped.

He wished more than anything that he had Amami’s number. He had no idea if the man kind enough to walk him home each day had got back to his own home safely. He had seen Saihara outside his window after Amami had left, but he still wanted confirmation that Amami had made it back without issue. The worry wormed its way into his brain, giving him a constant sense of unease. He couldn’t settle in to doing anything. It also didn’t help that he still wasn’t feeling well. He wished he could get just one good night of sleep without being woken by nightmares or paranoia or bouts of shivers.

 

When Monday morning came around, he was almost tempted to take a sick day, body shaking uncontrollably as soon as the air touched his skin, but the alternative of staying at home was also unappealing. The fever had come and gone several times over the weekend, so he hoped it wouldn’t be too bad at school. He was glad that he had pulled himself out of bed once the warm water touched his face and washed away the night’s cold sweat.

He’d seen people at school get colds and get over them pretty quickly, they tended to stick to him a little longer but that was probably due to his lifestyle. Hungry and healing aren’t the best states to be in when fighting off an illness. He figured it wouldn’t last too long though, these things don’t usually last a long time. He managed to get himself cleaned up reasonably well, he congratulated himself silently in front of the mirror. He looked pale and tired but that wasn’t anything new.

Ouma flowed with the crowds in the halls once he got to school, trying his best to keep up the pace with those around him. Keeping his eyes up, a wave of relief washed over him as familiar green wisps came into view. He couldn’t keep his smile from showing as he passed Amami, sharing a quick wave in passing. He was okay. Ouma couldn’t see anything different about him, so that must be good! At least he could go into class with a huge worry off his shoulders.

 

The rest of the day fell into his new normal daily pattern of classes, no messages from Saihara and short conversations with Amami in the halls. He was gifted another lunch time apple, he would seriously have to ask Amami what was up with them. He appreciated it immensely though. He wasn’t sure if his occasional nausea was due to his cold or from being so hungry. He almost felt guilty for still describing himself as hungry, he was being given something to eat almost everyday but it didn’t change the painful pangs would shoot through his body each day anew.

Amami was waiting for him at the end of the day as well. Ouma wondered if his friends that ran the clubs were annoyed about his new after school arrangement. He wondered if anyone had asked Amami about it. He wondered if he’d replied.

“Hey,” Amami broke him out of his thoughts. “You ready to go?”

Ouma gave a quick nod and they headed on their way. Amami started talking first, sharing a story about something he did over the weekend. Amami was popular, so hearing that he had met up with some people for lunch one day wasn’t surprising. Ouma wondered what it was like to enjoy being surrounded by people like that.

“How about you?” Amami shifted the conversation easily, “what did you do over the weekend?” Ouma wished he had a story to tell too, but there really wasn’t anything. He never did anything really. There was that one Saturday when he had stayed the night at Saihara’s, which had been nice at the time but it wasn’t important now.

“I didn’t do anything,” he admitted, disappointed with his own answer. Amami kept looking at him as if expecting more elaboration, he supposed it was an ‘how could you not have done _anything_?’ look. “I, uh, I wasn’t feeling well so, yeah,” he had no idea how he was planning to finish that sentence. His palms were still slightly damp, fidgeting along the handle of his bag as he tried to look at anything that wasn’t his walking partner’s face.

“That’s too bad,” Amami sighed, “are you feeling better now?” Ouma shook his head, heat still prickling at his skin.

“Not really.”

“I thought you looked a little under the weather this morning,” Amami admitted. Ouma was a little offended, he’d thought he’d made himself look fine before he left! Rude. “You should go to a doctor if it keeps up,” he began lecturing, “remember to drink lots of water, eating healthily should help too. I could bring in more fruit if you want?” He couldn’t stay annoyed at Amami after that display of actual care. Emerald eyes stared at him questioningly, genuinely wanting to help.

“Why do you bring in apples all the time?” Ouma couldn’t help but blurt, the curiosity getting to him. He had to know. Amami looked shocked at first, before covering his mouth with his hand and bursting into laughter. Ouma blinked up at him, unsure what was so entertaining about the question. He really needed an answer.

“Sorry, guess you don’t know,” he spoke in a weak voice still tinged with humour. “My parents have a little orchard at their house, they grow apples so I get care packages of them all the time. It’s way too much for me to get through by myself so I give them out to people that like them.” It suddenly made a lot more sense. Simultaneously it also felt a lot less special. “You must have thought I was really weird just giving out apples all the time,” he fell back into a small fit of hidden giggles. Ouma couldn’t help but smile with him. He kept that smile up for the rest of their journey.

 

Ouma wondered what kind of life Amami had. The idea of a quaint house outside of the city with an orchard sounded wonderful, but it didn’t suit the kind of image Amami had. All of his piercings, jewellery and flashy fashion sense lead Ouma to believe he was definitely a city boy. He didn’t associate frivolous luxuries like that with country living. He decided that he should ask Amami more questions, the other boy was easy-going and pleasant to talk to so Ouma should be more involved instead of letting the other drive all their conversations.

An unexpected buzz from his pocket brought him back to reality in his battered room. He’d been so caught up envisioning a far nicer life that he hadn’t realised how much he had zoned out. His gut twisted in anticipation as he pulled out his phone. Only one person texted him really, but why would he be texting now? Sure enough, Saihara’s name flashed up on his phone’s screen as he hurriedly tapped to read the message.  

‘He’s a good friend to walk you home every day,’ Ouma’s heart sank at the remembrance of this obstacle. He had been talking with Amami on his way home as if he was a normal person, as if there was no threat of danger following behind him. Saihara had been watching them. Saihara had been watching them and Ouma hadn’t noticed at all. He felt fear take hold of him, curling up smaller defensively. A chill emanated from his core.

What should he do? Should he tell Amami about Saihara? As long as he hung around Ouma, he was in danger too. It was selfish not to say anything, but what if he scared Amami off? He was finally enjoying the company of another human being, he didn’t want to ruin that. He bit his lip, staring down at his phone. An urge of rebellion rose up within him, his fingers moving with a confidence his mind lacked.

‘He is.’ He was more than a good friend. He was a great friend. Someone who looked out for other people and went out of his way to help them, even when he barely knew them. He was a great _person_. Unlike Saihara. So unlike Saihara.

His response must have annoyed him, since he didn’t receive another message for the rest of that night. A little bud of triumph bloomed in him as he settled to sleep.

 

“You look like you’re feeling better today,” Amami greeted him on Tuesday morning. Ouma was glad that his upperclassman had noticed, he felt a lot better too. He still seemed to be unwell, spells of fever still occurring, but he felt better in himself. He had noticed in the morning that the dark circles that always hung prominently against his pale skin and wide eyes had reduced, still very apparent but less so than normal. He had finally slept well. An uninterrupted rest that lasted the whole night. It was exactly what he needed.

“Thank you, I feel a lot better too,” he smiled back, the muscles in his face still felt alien to use in such a way. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled so much.

He wondered how much his comment last night had got under Saihara’s skin. He had been more cautious on his way to school that morning, but he hadn’t seen anything out of place. Although he was afraid that Saihara would retaliate, he still felt pride in his small victory.

When the final bell rang, Ouma could almost feel the skip in his step as he went out to find Amami. Today had felt like a win. He still had no word back from Saihara, he was well rested, he’d understood all of his classes and he was going to be walked home by a kind individual. Though still far from perfect, his day had been better than most.

“You seem kind of bouncy today, did something good happen?” Amami asked once they were on train, he sounded amused. Maybe he was happy for him? Ouma hummed thoughtfully, pondering how he could vaguely describe his joy.

“I just had a really good sleep I think,” he finally settled on his answer. He couldn’t come up with a way to bring up what had really happened without needing to go into it. The statement wasn’t untrue at least.

“That’s good, are you normally a night owl?” the conversation was as fluid as ever with Amami.

“Ah, not really, I just have a bit of,” he hesitated, trying to pick out the best word for his situation. “A bit of trouble sleeping I guess.” He didn’t need to know the details.

“That’s too bad, I’m out like a light as soon as my head hits the pillow,” the topic shifted away from any dangerous territory quickly. That was something Ouma enjoyed about speaking with Amami. He never pushed for information. If a conversation became uncomfortable, it would quickly evolve and become something else entirely before Ouma even realised. He wished he was half as charismatic as Amami.

The train came to a halt, jostling the passengers as it reached their stop. They exited and embarked on the last leg of their journey to Ouma’s house. As they left the station, noting that it was getting a little lighter in the evenings again, Ouma suddenly remembered the promise he had made to himself. Be a bigger part of the conversation. Ask questions. A moment of silence breached upon them, so he sucked in a deep breath and tried to force his confidence to the surface.

“Do you live with the orchard?” he asked, the words quiet and tangled. Amami tilted his head in response.

“Huh?” Ouma cursed his wording and tried again.

“The orchard, uh,” this wasn’t working at all. He took another breath, ready to try again from scratch. “You said your parents had an orchard, do you live there too?” Much better. The nod Amami gave before he started speaking confirmed that he had said a real sentence that actually made sense.

“Nah, I don’t live there,” he shook his head as they walked, “my parents, well my dad and my step mum, they don’t live in the city – not much room for an orchard here!” He huffed out a laugh casting his eyes around all the apartment complexes in the area. “I have an apartment near the school, it’s pretty convenient.”

“Do you work?” Ouma tried to imagine the kind of part time job Amami would have. He couldn’t imagine him as a cashier, or a fast food restaurant worker. It was hard to imagine him in any uniform that wasn’t his school uniform, and even then, it was only because he saw him in it. Maybe some kind of themed café? He would probably look good dressed as a butler or something along those lines.

“No, I don’t work,” Amami’s answer surprised Ouma out of his thoughts. How did he afford a place to himself? “My parents are pretty well off, my dad’s a businessman and spends a lot of time abroad. They pay for everything.” Amami sounded grateful for it as he spoke, he wasn’t trying to show off but at the same time someone living that kind of charmed lifestyle annoyed Ouma. It wasn’t fair that some people had things so easy, when things were so bad for him. But he couldn’t be too bitter. Someone like Amami deserved that lifestyle.

“I-is it just you in your apartment?” Ouma didn’t like the idea of him living alone. Especially not when Saihara could have it out for him. If something happened to Amami now after he’d possibly pissed off Saihara, he would never forgive himself.

“That’s right, just me,” Amami spoke in a firm tone, as if he didn’t want to continue that conversation on further. Ouma wouldn’t press it, Amami was always considerate about not forcing him to talk when he didn’t want to, he would do the same in return.

 

Wednesday morning was more annoying than most. Ouma hadn’t had the opportunity to buy more disinfectant for his wounds that were refusing to heal. More annoyingly he had forgotten that he’d run out. After washing them as best he could with soap and water, it had been stingy and rough on the tender skin, but if it hurt then it was probably working, he had ended up in a real rush to make it to school on time. Thankfully he had barely made it in before the first bell. He didn’t want to draw more attention to himself by being late.

A midday vibration from his pocket caught him off-guard. He checked his phone under his desk, desperate to the see the content immediately. He didn’t even need to check who it was from, only one person ever messaged him anyway.

‘Am I a good friend too?’ The message was confusing, he quickly flipped to their past messages trying to give it context. Regardless of whatever Saihara was trying to say, the answer was the always the same.

‘No.’ Tucking the phone away with an annoyed huff, he tried to focus on his class. His mind kept wandering back to that message. What was he trying to get at? Did he expect a different answer?

The next buzz was close to the end of the day. It was during class again. He couldn’t bring himself to wait until the bell to check it.

‘Not a boyfriend, not a good friend. What am I?’ What was going on with him? He was deranged. Insane. A stalker. A complete psycho. Even putting the horrifying discovery of the biological hoarding box aside, since that was still a secret discovery as far as Saihara was concerned, there were plenty of reasons Ouma could have for his answer. Primarily, friends don’t attack each other in the night and choke them unconscious repeatedly. There was so much he wanted to say, he tried to compile them into an appropriate answer.

‘Nothing. You are nothing to me. Leave me alone.’ His heart raced as he hit send, a mixture of excitement and regret hitting him hard. He was scared, but hopeful that this could be it. It could be the end. He felt sick.

He rushed to Amami’s side after school, hands still trembling. Adrenaline continued to shoot through him long after he’d sent the message. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He was so scared. This person already wanted to kill him when Ouma was in his good books, what would he want to do to him _now_? He was sure Amami had noticed he was acting a little strange, but he didn’t say anything.

Their footsteps slowed as they approached Ouma’s house, Amami had been the one to start reducing the pace, Ouma following suit. They ended up standing still outside his house, neither speaking. It felt tense, like Amami wanted to say something but didn’t feel like he should. Usually Amami would say his goodbye first, so Ouma waited for him to speak. Finally, the taller boy turned to him, an out of place serious expression across his normally relaxed features.

“Are you happy?” The question took several seconds for Ouma to process. He felt like he’d gone deaf. The question was so sudden, and so downbeat, he hadn’t expected it at all from Amami.

“Um, I, uh,” Ouma stuttered, wanting to get something out before he had thought through any kind of response. His immediate thought was to lie, to say that he was happy, why wouldn’t he be happy? That was his default response for anything that might out the kind of life he had. Something held him back though, something stopped him from being able to outright lie. He wasn’t sure if it was the weight of his current situation kicking in, or wanting to be honest to Amami, but he was so tongue-tied that he was unable to give any kind of coherent answer.

“I’m sorry,” Amami interjected hastily, “I just, don’t worry about it, I shouldn’t have asked something like that.” He frantically apologised, waving his hands in a useless gesture. The atmosphere felt heavy again, at the offer Ouma was content to not give any answer, but him not saying anything also spoke volumes. He was far from happy, but unwilling to share that information. But was he really so unwilling? If he really felt that way, he would have responded faster with his lie.

“I’m,” Ouma tried again, voice dying out after the first word. He couldn’t do it. “Fine,” he whispered, eyes downcast.

“Sorry,” Amami apologised again, clearly having not wanted to lower the tone like that. “I should go, see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Ouma nodded back, the pair parting quickly.

 

By the time Ouma made it to his room, he noticed he had a new message.

‘I always see you home safely. Isn’t that what good friends do?’ Ouma’s breath hitched at the words. He really wasn’t hiding it anymore. Always. He always saw him home. From where? How? There was no way. There was no way he _always_ saw him home. Before he could even respond another message came through, the phone vibrating in his hands.

‘He asked a weird question today didn’t he?’ Ouma wanted to scream. He wanted it to stop. He was starting to feel like happiness was within his grasp, but Saihara was the thing preventing him from getting that.

‘Just stop it!’ Ouma texted back in fury. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. He wanted it all to stop. No more being followed home, no more being listened in on, no more Saihara. He had done plenty enough damage. He was grateful for the silence that followed, but a new message cut that relief short.

‘Are you happy?’ Ouma put his phone screen down on the floor and buried his head into his hands. How close had Saihara been to them? To hear what they had said? Where had he been? Why? Why? Why? Why him? Why go so out of his way for _him_? Fighting back tears that threatened to spill, he picked his abandoned phone back up and asked the question he so desperately needed the answer to.

‘Why did you choose me?’ He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, the tears that had been prickling in his eyes wetting the fabric slightly. He shivered through cold or fear, his skin so undeniably hot in comparison. His head rushed, everything spinning in front of his eyes. His heart skipped a beat when the reply came in.

‘You’re my perfect victim.’ More of this. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t answer his question. _Why_?

‘I don’t even want to be on Danganronpa,’ he typed back, spite powering his fingertips. The response was fast.

‘Why?’ That was an easy answer.

‘I don’t want to die,’ it was true. No matter how bad things were sometimes, well, most of the time, he didn’t want to die. For a while he had wanted to die, he thought that was the only way out, but then he started thinking bigger. Started working towards a future. A goal. He had plenty of reason to live, he reminded himself of it almost every day when things would feel endlessly awful. He didn’t want to die. The next message he received was one that would stay in the forefront of his mind for a long time.

‘That’s exactly why you’re perfect.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!


	17. Questioning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did you mean?”

Thursday morning finally came after a lengthy, restless night. Ouma’s conversation with Saihara replayed over and over. He kept checking the messages on his phone as if they might just vanish and the whole event could have never happened. It bothered him how Saihara had not only seen him and Amami, but heard them too. How close must he have been? Ouma had been so careful, he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. At the same time, he always found himself so absorbed by Amami’s very presence that he could have missed something.

Amami’s question came back to him repeatedly as well. ‘Are you happy?’ What was the older boy thinking to ask something like that? What did he know? What did he want to know? Ouma felt that just by looking at him one could easily tell he wasn’t the most content person out there. He didn’t carry himself like a happy person. Was Amami just concerned? He wondered how he could even go about asking Amami what he meant. Maybe it would be best to come right out with the question? Be bold like the other was. Perhaps instead of being envious of his charisma, he could imitate it.

He held that thought in his mind as he got himself ready for school. The bruises had gone down quite nicely, but there were still a couple of areas that were discoloured. Bruises seemed to stick to his thin, pale skin. The bite near his shoulder looked smaller, the holes where Saihara’s teeth had pierced the skin scabbed shut though the area around the wound remained sore and red. The wound itself was still a little wet and sticky, he still needed to keep it covered. The cut on his thigh was much the same. Closed but not yet healed. The skin was still risen around the injury. As he finished getting himself ready, he blamed his hot flush on stress and lack of sleep.

 

The day was average, Amami didn’t mention the strange question he had asked the night before. He didn’t seem out of the ordinary at all. Not even awkward around Ouma. He didn’t know how the other boy did it, if the roles were reversed, he’d probably be incredibly weird around the person he’d asked that to. Saihara didn’t say anything more either. His silence was almost irritating now, it gave Ouma more time to mull over their previous exchange.

He had an answer now to ‘why him’ but it really didn’t solve anything. Saihara claimed that he was his perfect victim, ultimate victim, but Ouma still didn’t understand. He could comprehend why Saihara would find a will to live appealing in a victim, he wants a bit of fight, something to destroy, people wanted terrible things these days. At the same time, he wouldn’t have known that about Ouma from a distance. Besides that, probably the majority of people around don’t _want_ to die. Even the people that go on Danganronpa, a death sentence, don’t necessarily want to die. Some believe they can win. Some believe they can live.

So why was Saihara truly so obsessed with him? When did he first catch Saihara’s attention? And why? He certainly didn’t stand out, didn’t draw attention to himself, so what did Saihara see in him? He felt like his questions would drive him insane. He needed some relief from his own mind. He looked for Amami.

The upperclassman was never difficult to locate. Finding an opportunity to talk with him however, was. Amami was always surrounded by people drawn to him by his unusual and natural charm. Ouma was not the kind of person to walk into the centre of that crowd and drag him away. He also wasn’t the type of person that would talk with him in front of all those people. He settled for standing away from the group, watching Amami socialising with his friends.

Were they his friends though? Or were they just using him? Using him for popularity? Entertainment? Generosity? Those people were like hyenas, laughing it up with their pack, but when it really came down to it, it would be every man for themselves. Just greedy people taking what they could. Bitterness swirled within Ouma. A bitterness towards the selfish masses that tried to consume someone as special as Amami.

At some point Amami noticed him away from the group, and gave him a pleased smile, before quickly returning to whichever faceless individual he was already speaking with. Warmth began to ebb away at the harsh, aggressive feeling. The smile that he was given felt like one of actual joy, like someone was actually happy to see him.

It wasn’t a feeling he was used to.

Ouma didn’t stay much longer, strolling off to occupy himself for the remainder of lunch. He didn’t want to see anyone else get a smile like that. He didn’t know if he could take it.

 

When he met Amami again by the gates he was greeted with a similar smile, slightly more tired than the first after going through the remainder of the day, but still just as bright in Ouma’s eyes. They began to walk and talk as normal, recounting stories from their respective days, Amami’s tales far outshining Ouma’s boring stories of nothingness. Ouma was more than happy to listen to each of them.

They began to reach the end of their commute, the final stretch almost unbearably quiet after the packed train. It was around this point that their conversation would begin to die down, no longer spurred on by the constant hum of chatter around them. Ouma tried to recite in his head a way to ask Amami about his question. How could he possibly phrase it to make it not sound weird.

‘What did you mean when you asked me if I was happy yesterday?’ It was clear and to the point. Simple and easy.

‘Are _you_ happy?’ Did Amami ask a question that he wanted to be asked in return? Maybe he was projecting in some way and wanted to get the conversation going? It seemed like a pretty big jump. At the same time, asking it like that could be taken as a joke and laughed off if that wasn’t the case. It was acceptable in that it could be taken as less serious than his first attempt.

‘I’m not happy.’ He could answer the question now. He could be honest. He could admit to everything. That he had some crazy weird stalker that wanted to kill him on a TV show that he was forced into hanging out with by his apparently murderous bully – not that anyone would believe him with only his verbal witness account from said stalker, who probably wasn’t stupid enough to repeat it for the police to hear. That he ended up sort of dating the stalker out of his own choice for desirable benefits, then found out how far gone that guy was and now he was doing everything in his power to try and avoid someone that was always watching him.

With that thought he flicked his eyes around the area, scanning. He didn’t see anyone around them, couldn’t hear any out of place breathing or footsteps. There were plenty of places he couldn’t see though. Corners, alleys, behind obstacles. Technically he could still be around. He absent-mindedly let out a sigh. Running a mental recap of what his life currently involved was sort of exhausting, and the worst part was that it didn’t even include _everything_ that made his life a living hell.

 

“What’s up?” Amami asked, head slightly tilted and turned completely towards Ouma. It seemed his sigh didn’t go unnoticed. He had Amami’s full attention. What answer could he give for what was up? He mouthed wordlessly, attempting to get his thoughts in order enough to form a coherent sentence. It was now or never.

“What did you mean?” Ouma began, the words reaching his own ears before his brain had completely caught up. “What did you mean yesterday? When you asked,” his voice trailed off, finding repeating the question back to him impossible. Thankfully Amami understood right away.

“Ah, yesterday,” he shyly murmured, rubbing at the back of his head sheepishly. “I thought you’d ask me about that at some point.”

He had been purposely not mentioning it then? Ouma silently wondered if Amami had been running it through in his head as much as Ouma had been. Maybe they weren’t so different.

“Ah, it’s just, y’know,” Amami muttered, getting nowhere with his attempt at explanation. He blew a puff of air out his mouth audibly, looking deep in thought. Ouma wanted to know what words were rearranging themselves in his mind right now. “Like,” Amami drew out the word, seemingly rethinking what he had been about to say. “You look kind of lonely most of the time.”

That was it? Ouma blinked up at Amami, there must be more to that.

“You, uh,” Amami looked away from his large, curious eyes, grasping for the determination to speak further. “I’ve never seen you around anyone else I think, like with friends or anything.” Was it really that unusual for someone not to have friends? “Well, I guess you seem happy when we’re together so it seems weird that you don’t have any other friends right? You must enjoy having them.” Amami finally brought his gaze back to Ouma, a light blush of embarrassment dusting his features.

“Oh,” the somewhat disappointed noise was heard before Ouma even realised that he had made it. “Yeah, I don’t really talk to anyone at school,” he made the statement short and sharp. Amami continued to look at him, hands dropped to his sides but focus remaining entirely on him. It was difficult to explain why exactly to him. He could come up with an easy excuse though, one that he was sure Amami would be on his side for. “Everyone always just talks about Danganronpa, so it’s easier to just not talk to anyone.” He saw a flicker of something pass across Amami’s face. He couldn’t place what he saw in that moment.

“I remember you saying something similar before, you were having trouble with a friend getting too into it, right?” Ouma almost winced. Amami didn’t seem to be trying to catch him out though, maybe he hadn’t noticed the contradiction in him not wanting to speak with anyone and having a friend outside of school. Suddenly Amami’s original reasoning made less sense. If he remembered that Ouma did have a friend, then why was he saying that he thought Ouma was sad because he didn’t hang around with anyone else? Suspicions began to build. He almost got too lost in his roundabout thinking to answer.

“Yeah, that’s right. We’re, um, we’re not friends anymore.” A spike of fear launched itself through his small body. His vision drifted side to side, searching again. Was Saihara around? Could he hear them again today?

“That’s good,” Amami whispered more to himself than to Ouma. That reaction raised a lot more questions. He seemed to feel Ouma’s stare upon him and opted to explain himself. “It is good,” he said more firmly, “you don’t want to be stuck around someone like that.” Ouma recalled that Amami had some experience with someone he knew getting into Danganronpa in a bad way. At least they could agree on that.

Although Ouma had a million more questions, they had arrived at his home. He would have to ask Amami again about that question, he really doubted that the answer he was given was the whole truth.

 

He made it to his room, barricade firmly in place. His joints cried out and ached from mistreatment. He found himself panting by the time he sat down on his floor, surprisingly short of breath. He tried to calm himself down and went through his schoolwork as usual. By the time he was done though, his hands found their way to his phone as he began flipping through his messages to Saihara again. He needed to know more.

‘Lots of people want to live.’ He carried on their conversation like no time had passed. He was never waiting long for a reply.

‘They do and they don’t. People don’t want to live, they just don’t want to die.’ He stared at the message for a while. It wasn’t the type of message he expected from Saihara really. He could understand the sentiment, but struggled to understand the importance.

‘I don’t want to die. What makes me special?’ He started to wonder if maybe some of Amami’s confidence had rubbed off on him from their walks. Or maybe it was just because he was being walked home by someone capable that he was less afraid of what Saihara could do.

‘Everything.’ His eyes narrowed at the response. Too vague. Didn’t answer anything. It was frustrating. And creepy. He put his phone down against the floor with a low groan. He wasn’t getting anything new out of Saihara tonight he guessed.

 

The sun rose on Friday morning, the light barely making it through Ouma’s pulled curtains. Friday came with a strange confusion of feelings. For a moment a sense of dread, an image of Saihara, before being washed away by relief as he remembered that Amami would be walking him back. Safety.

A buzz from his pocket pulled him out of concentration during a class. A surge of urgency prioritised the message, pulling the phone from his pocket, the light shining up from under his desk.

‘Meet me tonight and I’ll tell you how special every part of you is to me.’ He felt his face begin to flush a deep crimson. He could hardly believe the message he was reading. His gut twisted in disgust. Fingers flew across the screen to reply.

‘No.’

He guessed Saihara didn’t like that much from the silence that followed.

 

He met up with Amami as usual by the gates ready to head home. He was glad that Amami was always there waiting for him, it was selfish that he was hogging Amami’s after school time, but he probably deserved to be a little bit selfish, right? Like the day before, their conversations started off with light-hearted retellings of their days, but as they encroached upon the desolate streets closer to Ouma’s home, their talks became more serious. Amami stopped walking suddenly, Ouma whipped around to face him in momentary panic. A quick Saihara check turned up nothing.

“About yesterday,” Amami began, a guilty tone to his voice. “Uh, about what I asked before,” Ouma fixated himself on the older boy, desperate to hear what he had to say. “I wasn’t entirely honest about why I asked that question. I said it was because you seemed lonely, but that’s not all of it.”

Ouma involuntarily gulped, so many thoughts and theories rushing through his mind that they turned to meaningless static.

“I saw, um,” he slowly spoke, a hand glittering with silver gestured across his own neck, “marks.”

Ouma’s free hand immediately shot to the top of his high collar, tugging it upwards defensively. He was sure each time he left the house his bruises were completely hidden by his uniform. The realisation hit him quickly after he watched the way Amami looked down at him with his round, bright eyes. Looked _down_ at him. His breath caught in his throat. Did that mean that everyone that was taller than him were able to see those bruises? Anyone that could see down the high neck of his uniform? There weren’t any boys he came into contact with that were shorter than him at his school, and girls wore a different uniform which didn’t have the high-necked jacket, instead opting for cardigans and bows. It dawned on him that if this were the case, then almost everyone at school would have been able to see those strangulation bruises. Almost everyone was able to see them, but no one said anything. No one asked if he was okay. No one did anything.

That was what he wanted though, right? He didn’t want people to notice him, didn’t want them to pay any attention to him. He wanted to blend in. He didn’t want people checking in on him. He didn’t want anyone to care. Was that really how he felt though? The hurt that stabbed through his chest seemed to doubt that. He wanted to get by without standing out, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be ignored. That didn’t mean he didn’t want anyone to care. He had been so angry at Saihara for not paying attention to him back then. He wanted some people to care about him. He wanted some people to see him.

He already found himself on the brink of tears when he realised Amami hadn’t even finished what he was saying yet.

“And, um, whenever I’m heading back, I always hear things, like, um, yelling, I guess,” Amami trained his eyes on the ground, struggling to broach this subject with the short boy. “I was just worried,” he finished in a careful voice, hesitantly raising his emerald eyes to meet with overflowing amethysts. Ouma trembled, quickly dropping his bag and raising both arms to cover his face, tears absorbing into the fabric of his sleeves. As he choked back his sobs, he wondered what kind of face Amami was making now.

Warmth suddenly enveloped him. Hands balled against his back, pushing his body against Amami’s softer form. They stayed like that for a while, until the sobs stopped trying to wrench themselves from his throat, and his tears stopped flowing. Ouma pulled back first, the pressure of his back against Amami’s hands telling him to let go.

“Sorry,” Amami was the first to speak in a subdued voice. His face practically dripped with guilt, as if it was his fault Ouma felt that way at all. He shook his head in response with a sniff.

“N-no,” Ouma stuttered, voice still breaking, muscles still tense in his neck. “Thank you,” he whispered instead, picking his bag up from the floor. Amami gave him a warm smile in return, the pair walked the short remainder of the way in silence until their farewells.

 

Just as Ouma was beginning to drift off to sleep, his mind still thinking back to Amami, a loud, grating vibration rang out against his hard floor. He forced his eyes to open grumpily, he had been enjoying pleasant thoughts of his upperclassman whisking him away from all his troubles. Now one of his troubles was bothering him. He grabbed his phone and held it above his head, reading the new message. He didn’t even need to check who it was from anymore, it was always Saihara.

‘You look pretty when you cry.’ Ouma’s mouth dropped into a scowl despite there being no one to see it. He put his phone back down on the floor, not interested in continuing that conversation. He closed his eyes again, shifting his body more comfortably against his blanket.

Another grinding buzz. His eyes flicked open again with annoyance. He grabbed the phone, staying on his side to read what else Saihara had to say.

‘I’ll make you cry.’ A shiver ran through his body. He hated it.

He hated Saihara.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!   
> I took so long getting around to replying to the comments from last chapter, I spent my lunch break at work today catching up with them! I read them as they come in and get all hyped about them, then just forget that I haven't responded. I'll try to keep up with them better this week!


	18. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was too open, too personal. He just wanted to turn tail and run from it.

Ouma spent the weekend mulling over his muddled thoughts. There was really a lot to take in. He went through the things that Amami had said to him. He had been so caring, hesitant but kind. He approached a subject that apparently everyone else just avoided. He was still filled with anger at the thought of all those ‘normal’ people ignoring his obvious injuries that he had believed were so well hidden. He wondered if he saw someone in his own situation, would he have approached them? Amami really was different. Ouma felt like Amami was actually there for him as well, not just pointing out what he knew to avoid the guilt of ignoring it, but point out what he knew so that he could actually help. His heart swelled at the idea of having someone like that around. Someone that didn’t want to hurt him.

What did he want from Amami exactly? He wanted Amami to continue caring about him, to help him. How could he be helped? His mind drew a blank. Amami could go to the police about his parents’ abuse, but that wasn’t what he wanted. They were the worst and deserved all the punishment in the world, but having a pair of jailed parents really wouldn’t do him any good. If he wanted to get accepted into a good college and have the future he strived for, he couldn’t let anything hold him back. He wasn’t in contact with any other relatives, they probably wouldn’t accept taking responsibility of him and being moved around schools wouldn’t help him either. He wouldn’t have to stay in this hell much longer. Just until the end of school, then he could move out when he went to college. Not much longer.

So, what could Amami even do to help him? Just be there for him? It sounded cliché, but it was something he was missing in his life. Even Saihara didn’t fill that kind of void, Saihara saw all his injuries, watched them accumulate over time but didn’t do anything to stop them. Maybe he just wanted someone in his life that wouldn’t try to hurt him. Someone who could offer him kindness.

Saihara wasn’t kind. It was hard for him to place what exactly Saihara must have felt for him though. Saihara told him he was special, though the reasoning felt flimsy. Like there was more to it that he just wasn’t getting out of Saihara. It was infuriating. Saihara was always watching him, even though Ouma could never spot him Saihara could always prove that he had been near. It was disturbing. Terrifying. Nothing about him was so special that it could cause someone to obsess like that. He wasn’t like that. So why?

He couldn’t say that Saihara cared about him. Not really. He was just a fascination, or a hobby, to the stalker. Nothing more. Ouma tried to drown out those thoughts of Saihara through entertainment. His phone offered him a world of distractions. He had a new episode to catch up on anyway.

 

Monday morning came with a whole new wave of annoyance. Not only was he out of disinfectant, but he was also out of bandages. He resigned himself to not being able to cover the two wounds, still not quite recovered. They itched and stuck to his clothing a bit, sharply stinging if he moved too much and detached the fabric from the tender, sticky flesh. It would have to do. How much longer could they stay irritated for anyway? Time heals all wounds, right?

He felt especially lightheaded through classes that morning, far more so than he had the week before. He hadn’t had any opportunities to eat over the weekend, and the sporadic feverish episodes had yet to cease. He was probably just hungry. He hoped he wouldn’t faint at school, that would be embarrassing. Then he’d be taken to see the nurse and have to answer a bunch of weird invasive lifestyle questions like ‘when was the last meal you had?’ while doing everything he could to avoid any sort of check-up. It would just be a lot easier if he could avoid all of that. An idea popped into his mind as he shakily scribbled down his notes. He should go and see Amami.

Thankfully between classes Amami was the one to find him. That meant he didn’t have to go scouting through the halls for him, or wait until he wasn’t surrounded to approach him. Amami never brought his little fan club with him when he spoke to Ouma, he got to have the upperclassman all to himself.

“How are you doing today?” Amami carefully asked, the talk they’d had on Friday must have been playing on his mind too. It was nice to know that he wasn’t the only being driven insane by these new interactions.

“I’m,” he hesitated, his voice leaving his mouth far weaker than he had expected. He cleared his throat and attempted to speak more loudly. “I-I’m fine, how are you?” he managed to sputter out, words still warbling.

“All good,” he replied with a weary smile, eyes still open assessing the smaller boy. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look a little,” he drew out his last word, likely looking for a non-offensive follow up. He paused, casting his head around subtly for inspiration, “tired,” he settled on.

Ouma knew it must not have been what he was really getting at though, he was pretty sure he didn’t look any more tired than normal. If anything, he had spent quite a bit of time sleeping over the weekend to dodge the hunger pangs. To drown himself in his more pleasant thoughts. To avoid the frightening ones. In truth, he really spent a lot of time trying to sleep for someone with such prominent dark circles, he didn’t have much else to do after all. Unfortunately, a lot of his time spent in bed were him attempting to relax enough to actually sleep, and a lot of his sleep was restless as he found himself frequently caught by nightmares.

“Uh, yeah,” he responded after a slightly too long break. He needed to swap his books over but the effort of putting his hand into his locker to do so felt like it would take the last of energy. Amami made a humming sound, his eyes dropped to a sad looking expression.

“You’re not sick, are you?” he asked after another pause between them.

“I hope not,” Ouma tried to joke, but there was no amusement from the other. “I don’t think so,” he continued, though honestly, he wasn’t sure. He probably was, but people didn’t like to be near people who were unwell.

“Maybe you just need a little pick-me-up then? Something sweet always wakes me up,” his smile returned full force, his eyes closing with it this time. With almost comical timing Ouma’s stomach opted to take this opportunity to grumble, quiet below the voices of the students around them, but loud enough for the boy standing closest to him to hear. He laughed with the sound. “Seems like you agree,” he jested, raising the side of his hand to his mouth.

“That would be nice,” he spoke with more dryness than he had intended. It really would be nice, but it wasn’t something that was an option. Amami’s laughing halted, the last couple of giggles choked out with a quick cough.

“Have some of your lunch early if you’re hungry, did you skip breakfast?” without waiting for Ouma to answer, he continued speaking, a finger raised like a teacher giving life advice. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day you know? If you eat breakfast you can concentrate throughout the day which is important for a young student like yourself,” he lowered his voice as he spoke, as if trying to make himself sound older, wiser maybe. “Sorry, sorry,” he waved off, giggling at his own performance, “I could have kept going, but I’m sure you don’t want to hear all that!” Ouma wanted to let himself be drawn into the fun that was being presented to him, but humour just couldn’t find him. He could only blankly stare at the other, who slowly returned to a more serious expression, silent and waiting for the smaller boy to say something. He really didn’t have anything to say though.

“I, uh,” he started, glancing into his locker as if it could have an answer for him. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Amami leapt on it immediately. “Why not?” His brow furrowed, Ouma felt like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but clearly the older boy was struggling to understand. Giving out a huff and an eye roll with the most energy he could muster he gave his explanation.

“I don’t have any lunch,” grabbing the books he needed to swap from his bag, he tossed them into the space unceremoniously.

“And no breakfast?” what was his fascination with breakfast? Ouma stared at him incredulously for a moment.

“No,” he sighed, grabbing the books he did need and stuffing them into his bag. Amami’s gaze went downcast.

“Oh,” he breathed. Closing the metal door with a quiet clang, he started to feel a little bad for being snappy with the other. “I,” he started, his next words dying out in his throat. He closed his mouth and tried against from the start. “I didn’t realise it was so bad,” he whispered, carefully raising his eyes back up to meet Ouma’s.

The tension was uncomfortable. It was not a subject he was used to. He wanted to pester Amami for some food, but not like this. This was too open, too personal. He just wanted to turn tail and run from it, the only thing anchoring him to the spot was his anxiety against taking an action like that, and his current lethargy. Biting his lip, the taller boy started rifling through his messenger bag, catching Ouma’s attention. Excitement grew.

“Here,” Amami held out a clear plastic tub. Ouma took it quickly, peering in through the side to see what was held within. Sandwiches, they looked like they had cheese and egg in them, along with some thinly sliced meat. He wasn’t sure what meat, but he would guess ham. As much as he wanted to eat them though, he didn’t feel great about guilting the other boy into giving him his lunch.

“What about you?” he asked after examining the box in his hands, eyes never leaving the contents.

“I have a couple of snacks, plus I have enough money to get something from the cafeteria if I want,” he explained easily, the guilt melting away from Ouma very quickly. “Have them, just give me back the box tonight, okay?” he timed the end of their conversation almost perfectly with the bell.

 

Ouma nibbled at a sandwich during his next class. He couldn’t have possibly waited any longer. Thankfully their literature teacher was quite relaxed about what people could and couldn’t do in his classes, he just wanted the students to be able to enjoy the arts. The first sandwich was gone before he even knew it, his body’s hunger partially relieved. The second was saved for lunchtime. It was rare for him to actually get to eat at lunchtime, it was usually just him watching everyone else enjoy themselves.

Amami was waiting for him at the school gate as normal after the final bell had rung. Ouma handed him the empty plastic container straight away with a muffled thanks. They walked off, their usual conversations flowed with stories of their respective days until they got off the train at Ouma’s stop. It was during the last leg of their journey that the conversation became more sober.

 “Why do you stay at home if it’s bad?” the taller asked innocently, eyes fixated on some imaginary point just above them.

“What other choice is there,” Ouma huffed. This was not his most favourite type of conversation to have, but at least he was able to have it with someone. He should have been grateful, but living in denial was easier.

“You never thought about running away?” Amami tucked his hands into his pockets, the relaxed expression on his face reminding them that this was a casual conversation.

“Of course, I’ve thought about it,” he wanted to ask who hadn’t, but he was pretty sure someone with a nice life like Amami probably would have never considered living on the street.

“But?” He pushed, gaze finally lowering to the small boy.

“It’s,” he searched for the right word, hand tightening around the handle of his briefcase, “impractical,” he decided on. At the silence that followed he continued slowly speaking. “It doesn’t really make things any easier, does it? At least there’s always somewhere to sleep.” If he lived on the streets, or elsewhere, there would be no guarantee of anything. No guarantee that he would be safe, or fed, or anything would be better. It would really be no different. Amami’s face tightened into a frown. The look quickly passed though, Ouma figured he was just frustrated by the situation.

“That makes sense,” he sighed, hands balled to fists in his pockets. He really did seem annoyed about it. Ouma decided that they should change the subject slightly, it was Amami’s turn to speak more personally.

“What about you?” he flipped the question, staring up at the other who looked back cluelessly.

“Have I thought about running away?” he asked, clearly confused.

“W-well,” Ouma stuttered, trying to rephrase the kind of question he had actually wanted to ask. “What’s your homelife like? You said you lived alone.” That was better. Amami hesitated before he started speaking.

“It’s nothing special really, a little lonely if anything,” he gave an uncharacteristically tense laugh.

“Is your home big?” Ouma continued to question, wanting to know more.

“It’s pretty big for one person,” he nodded, “it fits two people but,” he trailed off, suddenly quiet. Ouma realised he wasn’t going to get the end of that sentence as the only sound to reach their ears were their shuffling footsteps as they neared his house.

Nothing more was said between the two that walk, other than their goodbyes for the night.

 

As Ouma headed to school on Tuesday he decided that he was going to try and find out more about Amami. There were clearly things to learn, but not so much he was willing to volunteer. He wanted to know the end of that story.

“Here,” a familiar voice called out behind him while he was fishing through his locker for his textbooks. He whipped his head around to see Amami offering him a pack of supermarket rice balls. They looked good. It was a trio set, one with salmon filling, one with tuna filling and one with pork filling. He happily took them off the other’s hands.

“You can’t keep giving me all this food,” Ouma stated, hungrily eyeing the pack, determined to not eat them before lunch. Amami cocked an eyebrow. “People are going to think it’s weird,” he explained quietly, licking his lips while tucking the food into his bag. “Plus, I’ll get fat,” he joked playfully, earning a laugh in response.

“We’ve got quite a way to go before that’s a problem,” Amami retorted, the skinny boy in no danger of fattening up anytime soon. “And who cares if people think it’s weird, we’re friends, right?” Ouma stood up straight at that statement. Friends? It made sense, they definitely were friends, but to say it so outright in the hall like that. Ouma felt a cold sweat begin to rise against his forehead.

“Right,” he uncomfortably agreed, Amami seeming not to notice his tension.

Amami was right. They were friends. Why should the opinions of the people around them matter? Those people were terrible anyway, Ouma knew they were terrible. He was afraid of them, but only because they were all so awful. The only reason he cared about their thoughts was because of that fear. Maybe he didn’t need to be so afraid if he could borrow some of Amami’s confidence. That would be nice.

 

Their walk home was the same as before, except this time Ouma was the one to start the conversation once they reached the quieter section of their travel.

“Why are you living alone in a place that fits two people?” he bluntly asked. The best way to get the question out was just to ask it, right? Amami was taken aback by the force of it. He tucked one thumb into a pocket as he considered his response.

“The apartment was originally meant to be for a sibling and me to live in, but it didn’t work out so well. Now we live in different buildings,” he explained carefully, disappointment evident in his tone.

“Oh, I see,” Ouma nodded. It made sense, but Amami continued.

“It was kind of doomed from the start really, I didn’t really know her that well and then we were just expected to live together. It would have been nice if it had worked out though,” he sounded somewhat mournful of it. Questions swirled round Ouma’s mind.

“She’s a sibling but you didn’t know her very well?” Ouma echoed, surely, he would have known his sister pretty well, right? Wouldn’t they have lived with their parents first? Together?

“I should explain,” Amami began with a nod, “she’s my step-sister, my dad married an American woman he met abroad on a business trip, she already had a daughter.” That made a lot more sense, but it must have been a recent marriage for them to not know each other well. “She’s a little younger than me, she’s in your year actually,” he acknowledged with a point of his finger, “but at a different school.”

It did make sense why something like that wouldn’t work. Living with somebody you don’t really know was always going to be full of challenges, but adding in that they’re different genders and different ages probably added a lot more arguing to their lives. Still, Amami must have wanted it to work out from how he sounded talking about it. Maybe he really hated being alone? Ouma felt a little sad thinking about the other getting home after being surrounded by friends all day suddenly being plunged into silence and solitude. Perhaps that was why he was happy to have so many people around him all the time? Maybe that was why he didn’t mind hanging around with him?

At least that thought made him feel like he was doing something good for Amami. While they were together, Amami wouldn’t be lonely. Ouma decided that talking up more during their conversations was definitely a good thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!   
> I've been under the weather this week so found it really hard to get into writing this chapter, but I was determined to finish it on time and it's not even too short!


	19. Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was he supposed to say to an offer like that?

During class on Wednesday, Ouma’s mind began to wander. It flicked around the things he and Amami had spoken about, Ouma had to admit he was curious about what kind of person his step sister was. What was more on his mind, however, was the absence of any communication from Sahara. The silence from him wasn’t particularly unusual, but he was sure Saihara would have some kind of remark about the newfound information on Amami’s personal life.

Their conversations were becoming more and more serious, and if Saihara really could hear everything they were saying, and really was following them every day, then Ouma was sure he would have something to say about it. Of course, Saihara had commented on his little breakdown on Friday and he wasn’t exactly excited to hear from him again, but it still bugged him. Maybe Saihara just didn’t care about Amami? Saihara didn’t want to comment on Amami’s personal life, only messaging when it came to Ouma’s? Eventually his mind found its way back to the lesson at hand, and those thoughts were tucked away once more.

Amami gave him food again, it was becoming a daily occurrence that Ouma could easily get used to. He had to selfishly admit to himself that he would be disappointed when the day comes that Amami hadn’t brought him in some kind of snack. He had found already that eating each day was giving him more energy than he normally had. He was also less lightheaded, though he still suffered from the occasional dizzy spell often accompanied by his stubborn feverish episodes. They were getting less frustrating, but only because he was getting used to them.

 

This time on their walk home Ouma started up the questioning earlier than normal. They were barely on the train when he broached his first question in a beat of silence. He wanted to find out more about Amami, and the only way he would do that was by asking.

“I was thinking,” he shakily started, attempting to gather his courage to talk on such a personal level with his upperclassman, almost losing his nerve. “I-it must have been hard for your step sister,” he began slowly, trying to bite back the stutter, damp grip tightening on the handrail to his side. “You know, to move to another country that doesn’t speak the same language or,” he shifted his gaze around the train, a sweeping motion while he tried to finish his sentence with his dry mouth, “have the same culture, or anything.” He hesitantly swung his eyes back to Amami, nothing looked suspicious on the train through his heat hazed vision. Amami gave a light hum while he composed an answer for the smaller boy.

“I suppose it is a big change, from America to here,” he spoke softly, in thought, “but her Dad was Japanese so she could already speak the language from a young age which helped a lot.” Ouma nodded, that would make transitioning from a school in America to a school in Japan a lot easier.

“I guess her Mum has a type,” the words were out his mouth with a smirk before he could stop them. Wide eyed he cautiously watched Amami’s reaction shift from casual, to surprise to amusement. Ouma let out a deep breath once he heard the other begin to laugh. Maybe he was getting too carried away in this ‘borrowing confidence’ game he was playing.

“I guess so,” Amami could barely get his agreement out through his melodic giggling.

It was pleasant to listen to. Ouma wanted to make him smile and laugh more, he always felt such an accomplishment from hearing Amami’s happiness from something he had said or done.

“Is it just you and your parents?” Ouma stiffened as the conversation moved back round to him. They were just off the train, onto the final quiet leg of their journey so Ouma felt he could speak more freely. It wasn’t like anyone that attended their school were going to hear them anymore.

“Yes, just us,” he responded weakly, the answer earning a silent nod from the other.

“Sounds,” Amami started, pausing before he could continue, finding the right word, “lonely,” he finally murmured.  

“Not really,” Ouma countered, shaking his head while he looked at the ground ahead of them. “I didn’t want anyone around, so I don’t think I was lonely.” He seemed to hold Amami’s interest, his vibrant green eyes staring into the side of his head. “I guess the people I had around me sucked, so I didn’t want any more,” he mumbled, though Amami seemed to hear his every word.

“That’s a sad way to think about it,” he commented, their bodies closer than normal as they walked. Was Amami walking closer to him as a form of comfort? Or was it unconscious? Either way, Ouma was very aware of it. “Is that why you don’t speak to many people now, too?” he asked gently, his expression soft and welcoming.

“I-I guess,” there was a little more to it, like not wanting people to find out the things about him that Amami knew, and the world’s obsession with twisted killing games, but this was a good enough explanation for now. “Oh,” Ouma sounded suddenly with a flinch, “but you’re not,” his tongue tied as he attempted to get out a coherent thought, “I mean, you’re,” he expected words to find him, but they did not. Thankfully Amami seemed to understand what he was trying to say.

“I don’t suck?” he offered with a small smile, Ouma returned the smile in kind.

“Yeah,” he agreed with an airy laugh.

They arrived back to Ouma’s home shortly after, parting ways. Ouma couldn’t help but sit in his room and smile to himself. Their conversation had been nice, though tense in places, definitely nice. A sense of warmth spread throughout his chest when he thought about the things Amami did for him, how patiently he spoke with him about these issues. It wasn’t something he had experienced before.

 

The following day, all Ouma could do was be excited for their walk back home. He found himself increasingly looking forward to their time together, but their walk was different from the times they spoke in school. On their walk Ouma knew that he had Amami all to himself, no one was going to appear, start a conversation and take the older boy away from him. It may as well have been only them in the whole world during their commute.

He did also look forward to his morning food delivery between classes each day. Amami always seemed to stop by a shop on his way to school to pick something up for Ouma, and a few snacks for himself, he had admitted with an almost naughty grin, like he was a child doing something he was told not to. That day he also gave Ouma a little pot of grape jelly that he had bought, the plastic cup was soft and Ouma couldn’t help squidging the malleable sweet slightly.

“I don’t know if it’s a flavour you like, but when I saw it, I was reminded of you,” Amami explained, he sounded more shy than usual, “I mean it’s a similar colour to your hair and eyes,” he quickly explained, too quickly. He was covering up how embarrassing it sounded at first.

“I do like it,” he nodded, Amami giving a breath of relief. “There aren’t many foods I’ve tried that I don’t like actually,” Ouma hummed thoughtfully.

“Really? I like trying new foods, I get bored of the same stuff over and over again,” Amami conversed fluidly. “Wait,” he suddenly exclaimed, “what kinds of things don’t you like? So I know not to get anything like that” he asked, voice calmed.  Ouma stuffed the food into his bag while he thought. He really wasn’t picky, he would eat whatever he could get, even if he didn’t like it at times.

“I don’t like when meat still looks like the animal,” he was always kind of grossed out when people ate things that looked whole. Usually the things didn’t taste bad, but the appearance really put him off. “Like fish cooked with the head still on, or pig’s feet, or anything like that.” It always looked so cruel. Barbaric.

“Oh, I get it,” Amami nodded deliberately, “well that should be easy enough to avoid!” He chirped, sounding triumphant in some way. He wouldn’t say Amami was childish at all, but he could be easily pleased. Ouma liked being the centre of that feeling. The bell signalled the end of their short time together until later that day.

 

Once they were on the train, Ouma gathered himself to ask Amami something he had been thinking about. The way a few things the other boy had said tied together and brought Ouma to a conclusion that he wanted to know more about.

“Was your step sister the one who got really into Danganronpa?” He spoke in a low voice so that the people around wouldn’t be able to listen easily to their conversation. Amami looked shocked for a moment, but it passed quickly.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he bitterly replied. “Apparently that was part of the reason she was excited about moving to Japan too,” he shook his head slightly. “She’s weird, she’s kind of stoic and it isn’t obvious that she’s really into it, but she is.” He tried to make light of it as he talked, but clearly it made him uncomfortable. Ouma wondered if she was anywhere near as into the show as Saihara was. “What makes me the saddest though is that she wants to go on the show. She doesn’t care that her family would be distraught if she went off to die on TV, she doesn’t care that she would be throwing her whole future away,” his voice raised with frustration. He brought his hand to his mouth to shush himself, looking around the train to make sure he hadn’t caught the attention of too many people.

Ouma couldn’t help but think that if that was how she felt, maybe she deserved to die. He knew it was an awful thought, and he certainly wouldn’t voice it anytime soon, he just couldn’t help but feel that way. It was what he liked about Danganronpa. It got rid of terrible people. Not nearly enough of them, but some. The terrible people like Amami’s step sister who would want to go on that show. At the same time, seeing the hurt that the idea of it brought on Amami made him feel sick. It made him hate those people even more. The people that would go on the show knowing it would be distressing on their family and friends around them. He wondered how many people had watched their family members die on that show. He wondered how they had felt. Were they sad to see that person die? Or was it like watching someone they didn’t even know die? With the memory alterations and all, they weren’t _really_ the same person anymore. How many people got off on watching someone they knew die?

“She had a pen pal in Japan too,” Amami broke Ouma from his frantic thoughts with the sudden statement. “She’s a really sweet girl, she’s in the same year as my sister and their schools are near each other so they meet up a lot now.” That definitely sounded nice, but the way it was spoken about, Ouma knew there was something not so nice about the story. “My sister ended up getting her into Danganronpa too, I just hope she doesn’t convince her to go on it as well. She’s always seemed like such a gentle girl, I worry my sister will peer pressure her into joining with her or something.” He sighed, scrunching his face into a look of concern. Danganronpa fans were like poison, spreading their disease as they went. He bit his tongue. There was nothing he could say to make Amami feel better.

They exited the train once it stopped at their station, starting out on the final part of their journey. As expected, Amami was the first to speak again, it being his time to ask about Ouma’s personal life.

“With your situation,” he picked his words carefully as started, setting the scene. “Did you ever consider staying with someone else?” Ouma thought through his words carefully. Of course he didn’t stay with anyone else, there wasn’t anyone else. No other family, no friends, there was no one. He liked the time he did stay overnight at Saihara’s, but he paid for that in full when he returned home the next day. He couldn’t even imagine what it would be like returning home from a longer stay away. He suppressed the shudder that tingled in his spine.

“No,” he started gently, clearing his throat before continuing, “No, there wasn’t anyone I could stay with so it was never really an option.” Amami seemed to understand, he had already told him how he kept himself away from other people, so it made sense.

“But what if you could?” Amami pressed, the question strange to the smaller boy’s ears.

Ouma made a sound of thought as he tried to compose an answer. A short term stay anywhere would be bad once he returned, so the only way that would work in his favour is if he didn’t return. He supposed staying with someone and not going back home would still be running away, but it would be different too. It wouldn’t involve leaving school, or living on the street. His parents probably wouldn’t even go to the police if he went missing since they could get into a lot of trouble very easily. He guessed something like that would probably be ideal, but it wasn’t an option.

“If I could stay somewhere forever, then I would, but if it was just for a while, then no.” Ouma felt good about his answer, though Amami’s confused face made him unsure.

“Why not for just a while? Surely being away from them for any time is better than not getting away from them at all?” Amami also made a lot of sense.

“Uh, if I went away and then, um, came back after a bit, it would be bad,” he struggled to find his words, the topic was much more difficult to speak about like this. So directly. “If I went away, I wouldn’t want to return.”

“Ah, I think I understand,” Amami softly spoke, Ouma’s house getting nearer. Amami stopped walking, the house within sight at the end of the road they were on. Ouma halted once he realised Amami had fallen behind him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked the taller boy, walking back towards him. He looked conflicted.

“What if,” Amami slowly felt the words out, “you stayed with me? I have the space.” Silence fell on the two after the question was asked. Ouma could feel the heat rise to his face and his body run cold. What kind of question was that? He wasn’t serious, right? His face must have shown his shock in full from the way Amami broke eye contact, staring off to the side instead.

“I-I, what?” Ouma stuttered stupidly, still unable to believe the genuine sounding words Amami had spoken.

“You could stay at mine, really,” he spoke with more force, turning to look at Ouma again. He really seemed to mean it.

“I-I’m not so sure I c-could,” Ouma’s whole body rushed with discomfort at this conversation. His muscles tensed, his mind bleary. What was he supposed to say to an offer like that? It might be wonderful, but it was far too much to ask of someone. Besides that, he still didn’t know Amami that well! They had only been friends for a little while now.

“Think about it,” Amami finished finally.

He shifted to start walking again, Ouma following suit to walk beside him again. Ouma noticed that Amami was closer than normal to him again. His entire body flinched when their hands bumped together. He froze when Amami slid his hand into Ouma’s, tightening his fingers around the smaller boy’s thinner hand. He could feel a cold sweat rise against his skin. He didn’t let go.

“Is this okay?” Amami quietly asked, almost as if he didn’t want Ouma to hear him.

“Yeah,” Ouma breathed back. He didn’t really know what was happening at that moment in time, but he definitely didn’t mind it. Amami’s hand was warm, his grip strong. It was completely different to Saihara’s clammy hands. They parted at Ouma’s door with a simple goodbye.

 

Once Ouma got to his room he had a lot to think about. Amami’s unexpected offer, then the hand holding. Did Amami have romantic feelings toward him? Did he want Ouma to move in with him, like, in a boyfriend way? How did Ouma even feel about that? He enjoyed spending time with Amami, he _really_ enjoyed spending time with him, but did he like him like that? There were times he wanted Amami all to himself, was that what it was like to want to be with someone? The buzz of his phone took him out of his frenzied thoughts. His breath hitched. Saihara had probably seen them, he almost didn’t want to read what Saihara had to say.

‘You two looked pretty lovey-dovey,’ he could imagine Saihara’s voice spitting those words through his teeth. He decided there was no reason for him to be pushed around by Saihara, he had no right to be bitter.

‘So what?’ was the best response he could come up. It was a bit petty, but it conveyed what he wanted it to. If he could have stuck his tongue out at Saihara along with it, he would have. He didn’t think hanging around Amami was bad for him at all, it helped him speak up to all sorts of people.

‘I bet you think he’s perfect,’ Saihara’s message was odd. Perfect was a strong word, but Ouma did think Amami was different to everyone else. Kind, caring, sincere, didn’t want to see people kill each other. Just overall a good person.

‘He’s better than you,’ Ouma decided to stick to being petty. He wondered if the jelly had some kind of child-ifying effect on him. He had ended up slurping the dessert from the cup, since he hadn’t had a spoon around. He was actually kind of thankful that he didn’t spend lunch with anyone, it was better for no one to have seen him drink the jelly.

‘I’m honest,’ Ouma wrinkled his nose as he read the message.

‘And Amami isn’t?’ he typed the question quickly, curiosity building. What did Saihara know?

‘He hides what he actually wants,’ his teeth sank into his lower lip. The answer was so cryptic, why couldn’t he just say what he meant?

‘What does he want?’ If Saihara was making a claim like that, then he had to know as well, right? At least Saihara was a fast typer, so Ouma wasn’t waiting long for an answer.  

‘I’ll tell you everything if we can meet,’ Ouma’s grip tightened on his phone.

‘No,’ the response was almost instant. Saihara was probably just making it up then, it was just a ploy to trick him into meeting and doing who knows what to him.

‘Then enjoy finding out for yourself.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Things are soon to be spicy!


	20. Sudden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because something is sudden, doesn't mean it's bad.

Friday came about with a familiar sense of dread, though not quite for the same reason as normal. As he readied himself and left for school, he re-read Saihara’s text repeatedly. He couldn’t get those words out of his mind. The idea that Amami was hiding something from him. Something bad. Ouma couldn’t even imagine something dishonest about the boy who had helped him so much, expecting nothing in return. He was the one person in the whole world that wasn’t awful. The thought that it could all be a façade caused his chest to ache and his stomach to flip. It just wasn’t possible.

He decided that he would believe in Amami. Certainly, he would trust in Amami over Saihara. Amami actually wanted what was best for him, Saihara just wanted him for his own ends. Saihara didn’t really care about him, Saihara wanted to hurt him, use him. Saihara was as awful as a person could be. He was nothing compared to Amami.

As if sensing his complicated feelings, Amami approached him between classes, store bought lunch in hand and a gentle smile gracing his features. He lifted the gift towards Ouma slowly, the movement light. He seemed more passive than normal, likely very aware of the intense offer he had made the night before.

“Thanks,” Ouma took the premade bento box gratefully, peering through the clear plastic lid at the food below. It looked like breaded pork and rice in one section, and various vegetables separated into two other sections. There were even chopsticks included in the packaging. It looked filling and tasty, tonkatsu was always a popular choice. He tore his eyes from the meal, tucking the box into his bag for later, noticing Amami make a sound, attempting to start a sentence, but failing and starting over.

“Um, about what I said last night,” he slowly began, vibrant eyes locked onto Ouma’s face, searching for any reaction before continuing. “I’m sorry, I probably came off way too strong, right?” he laughed heartily, his chest puffing outwards with the sound, and a hand automatically finding its way behind his head in a bashful reaction.

Ouma considered those words. ‘Came off too strong?’ His mind echoed the sentiment, trying to understand exactly what the other boy was trying to say. It made him think of people flirting on TV, when one person oversteps their bounds and plays it off cool by saying something like that. Did that mean that Amami intended to be flirtatious? With the hand holding it made a lot of sense. Did Amami really feel like that towards him? The idea of it was still unreal.

“I just mean,” Amami continued, Ouma’s no doubt gormless face staring back at him, “the offer is still there, if you want to take it, you know?” he rambled out the statement as a question, even his confidence dipping in a confrontation like this. Ouma wordlessly nodded, before plucking up the courage to actually say something.

“Y-yeah, thank you,” he stuttered, annoyed that he couldn’t come up with something better to say. Something more to add. The bell signalling the next class saved him from trying to come up with something to make their conversation less awkward.

 

“How was the lunch?” Amami began as they started their walk to the train. “I thought it looked pretty good in the store.” It had been really good. The portion size had been generous, and everything had been delicious. There was definitely a reason tonkatsu was so popular.

“It was good,” he responded happily, keeping his enthusiasm over the inexpensive meal to himself. He didn’t want to make Amami feel worse about the position Ouma was in, he already seemed so invested in Ouma’s wellbeing. “How come you buy snacks and stuff in the store when you make your lunch at home?” When he had asked Amami before about his buying of food for him, he’d only admitted to buying snacks for himself, not his own lunch. When he’d given Ouma food the first time, it had been homemade sandwiches in a Tupperware box.

“I think it’s a little bit healthier to make the food you eat every day, instead of buying it,” he hummed thoughtfully, “but I guess it doesn’t really work if I’m still eating the extra stuff too,” an accompanying laugh and grin. Ouma saw an opportunity, his newfound closeness with the taller boy giving him the courage to take it. He looked up at the other, a small pout on his lips.

“But it’s okay to feed me unhealthy things every day?” He asked in a small voice, Amami’s eyes immediately snapping to him in alarm.

“N-no! That’s not, I mean, I didn’t think it looked too unhealthy,” he spluttered in a panic, desperately trying to find an answer to disarm the situation. Ouma felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards, giggles spilling from his mouth. Amami stopped trying to speak and watched him laugh, shock still evident.

“I’m not really mad,” he explained between giggles, the laughter finally dying down as they stepped onto the train. “But I got you, didn’t I?” his eyes lit up with glee along with the question, a certain childishness to his humour. Amami couldn’t help but crack a smile with him.

“You really did,” he sighed, the fear subsiding into his usual relaxed persona.

 

On the final section of their journey, once the roads had become quiet and they felt almost isolated from anyone else, Amami snuck his hand by Ouma’s, and threaded their fingers together. Ouma offered no resistance to the action, Amami’s warm skin pleasant against his own. He gripped the larger hand, feeling the soft yet thicker skin of the hand in his. It was like another layer of protection. If anything were to happen, Amami was right there and that was a certainty. He could feel him right there beside him, come what may. They walked together in a tense, unusual silence until they neared Ouma’s house. Amami’s hand pulled back on Ouma’s, halting them both. Ouma turned and looked at the upperclassman with confusion until he explained.

“My offer yesterday,” he started, setting their topic, “what about it don’t you like?” the question was asked innocently, a slight head tilt punctuating it. Ouma felt the heat rising through his body as he was put on the spot again, like being boiled beneath a stage light. His tongue pressed against his palette, attempting to wet his dry mouth.

“I-I, it’s just,” he tried to find the right words amongst his false start, “it’s so sudden.” People don’t often go around offering their friends to live in their house with them just because they have space. At the same time, people aren’t often like Amami. People don’t often care like he does.

“Sudden,” Amami repeated, feeling out the words for further meaning. “I suppose it is,” his tone was joking, eyes closed in a slight smile despite their serious topic. “But what’s bad about that?” his eyes opened, his focus returned. Ouma blinked, a questioning sound dying in his throat. “Something good happening suddenly isn’t a bad thing just because it’s sudden, right?” he gestured with his free hand, a simple flick of the wrist and fingers that meant nothing, but let the last of the sunlight glint off his jewellery. “Like winning the lottery!” Ouma supposed he did have a point about that, but it was still ridiculous.

“That’s, that’s one thing,” he mumbled, trying to organise his thoughts, moisture building between their hands yet neither of them showed any signs of letting go.

“Isn’t the prospect of not having to live at home anymore just like that?” Amami asked before Ouma could continue, “like a lottery win?”

Ouma completely understood why the other would see it that way, he was almost more surprised that he _himself_ wasn’t thinking of it that way. The thought of what would happen if anything went wrong with their plan bleared in his head. The certainty that it would go wrong pounding in his ears. The want for it to work and go well flowed through him, but the potential for it not to go well was so overwhelming. It was impossible. It would never work. He could feel his shallow breathing pick up in pace, the lines of his surroundings blurring together. His head swayed side to side ‘no’. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than it going well. It would go well, then something would happen, something would always happen, and he’d have to leave. Being cast out from heaven would hurt more than never having been there in the first place. If he went home it was a world of pain, he could even die if they felt like it. Then there was Saihara. He would still exist as a problem even if things were going well in this plan. What would be done about him? The threat of his family inside his home, the threat of his stalker outside. Amami was his only safe haven. That’s exactly why he _couldn’t_ be around Amami all the time, they couldn’t live together.

“Hey,” finally Amami’s calls pierced his muffled hearing, two hands securely on his narrow shoulders. He didn’t know when their hands had separated. One shoulder was warmer than the other. He blinked back to reality, the reality where Amami was clutching onto him, regarding him with worry, concern. “Hey, you alright?” His voice was calm, soothing in comparison to his own internal panic. The breath brushing against Ouma’s forehead was almost cooling, the blood returning down to the rest of his being. He wondered how red he must have gone in that moment.

“I’m fine,” he panted, exhausted from their conversation.

“Good,” Amami nodded, hands lifting away from Ouma’s small body.

Then, in an instant they were back, Ouma snapped his head up in surprise, his wide-open eyes only catching the movement of Amami’s face darting closer to his own. He snapped his eyes closed, the closeness of their faces having strained his vision, and a warmth spread over his lips. The warmth of another person’s lips. He stood, motionless, hands slightly raised in surprise. He didn’t kiss back, he only stilled. It was all he was capable of doing. The kiss was short, Ouma carefully opening his eyes once the heat had moved away.

“While we’re being sudden,” Amami gave his bashful smile, a light dusting of pink across his cheeks. Ouma didn’t know how to respond, he had no idea what to do. Amami had kissed him. Amami had _kissed_ him. Amami had kissed _him_. It didn’t even sound right in his own mind.

“I-I’ll see you tomorrow,” was all Ouma could think to say, wanting nothing more than to escape and let his brain have at it. He could feel the tremble in his legs as he started to move away. He needed some quiet.

“Tomorrow?” the other echoed, the smile still going strong despite Ouma’s reaction.

“Ah, sorry, not tomorrow,” Ouma realised his mistake, anxiety rising further. “Monday,” he could barely manage to get the correction out of his mouth as he all but dashed away and into the confines of his home.

 

Once through the door to his room, he tipped the nearby set of draws down to block the door from opening, creating a barricade like he did every day. Almost instantaneously he dropped to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest, mind reeling. His fingers dusted along his lips for a moment, memories of the kiss erupting fresh in his mind. Amami had kissed him. Out of nowhere. Nothing had forced him to, he just _had_. Amami bought him things, cared about him, walked him home every day, spoke with him every day, invited him to live in his house, and now Amami had kissed him. It was unbelievable. It was beyond belief. That meant that Amami must _like_ him, but why?

Amami had suddenly started paying attention to him when he was missing classes because he was getting breakfast with Saihara instead. Then that attention just sort of never stopped. What happened to make Amami like him? Usually with people it was pity, they felt sad for him and he was sure if they ever found out about his situation, he could have people falling over themselves to do things for him and help him so that they would be seen as a good person. He hated that mentality, and he was so sure that Amami wasn’t doing anything like that. But sometimes he didn’t feel as certain. They were in private though. No one from their school could see them, so there was no way it could be something for reputation, right? There was no way. It must be how he really feels.

He leaned his back against the wall behind him, letting the back of his head fall against it. What was he supposed to do?

If he turned down Amami’s feelings, he could potentially lose Amami altogether. Worse, if Amami was particularly upset about it, he could say things about Ouma’s life to other people that would put him in a difficult position. He had been very open with Amami, and it could be ugly if things went very wrong.

Alternatively, he could turn down Amami and it would all be fine. He might not have a problem with it, and they would carry on being friends and nothing would change. That would be good.

He could accept Amami’s feelings, but not move in with him. He would ask why, and Ouma would either have to be truthful, or be vague. Either way it insinuates that he doesn’t trust Amami, or that he doesn’t believe their relationship will last. Situation could be very tense and uncomfortable. Probably a lot of hard conversations. Possibly a lot of ‘are you sure?’ and the offer being presented over and over again, forcing the same horrible conversations to happen again and again.

Finally, he could accept Amami’s feelings and agree to move in with him. Dangerous situation. If things were to go wrong with them, and Ouma ended up going back home, then it would make everything terrible for him. It could work out, and be fine, but it wasn’t at all a guarantee. If it did work out, he could be safe and happy. If it didn’t work out, he could die. He probably wouldn’t, but he could, if his parents were pissed off enough.

Did he want to be in a relationship with Amami? Why wouldn’t he? Amami was kind, attractive, popular and Ouma loved the time he spent with him. He didn’t feel that way about anyone else, so it must be the case that he liked him back, right?

Heaving a sigh, he got to his feet and made his way across the room to his window. He slid his curtains open, scanning the street outside. Empty. It had been a while since he looked out his window like this, he always stayed away from it, constantly paranoid that Saihara would be outside, staring back in at him. He fished his phone out of his pocket, loosely holding it in one hand. What was he doing? He had no idea himself. He wanted to talk to someone about what he should do about Amami, but the only person he had to talk about things to _was_ Amami! Was he looking for Saihara to talk to? Would he even want to talk to Saihara about something like that? Just the thought of that boy turned Ouma’s stomach and set his teeth on edge. His shoulders tensed, a dull ache present around the old bite wound. The old bite wound that still didn’t show its age. He didn’t want those marks anymore, so why wouldn’t they just go? He felt like everything was out to frustrate him.

 

After a few minutes of absent-minded staring, he was about to close the curtains again when a vibration shook his hand. His grip was almost non-existent on the device, his fingers tightening in a panic response to the feeling. He glanced out over the street again. Still nothing. He turned the phone to see the screen – 1 new message: Saihara.

‘Looking for me?’ The message sent an instant chill through Ouma. He immediately regretted showing himself. His eyes continued to flick up and down the street, attempting to peer into the darkened alleyways, but he just couldn’t see anyone. Where was he? Saihara could clearly see him in the window. He _had_ to be out there. Angrily, Ouma tapped the onscreen keyboard with more force than needed with the tip of his thumb.

‘Where are you?’ His eyes returned to the outside as soon as he was finished typing, determined to catch his movement. Then, he saw it. Just for a moment, if even that, he saw it. The flicker of a phone light, quickly obscured. Ouma let out a strange laughing sound, a single, sharp bark of humour.

Saihara was certainly cleverer than he let on. He came up with all those obviously incorrect theories, and yet could find a hiding place like that. The art of the stake-out, he supposed, fitting for a wannabe ultimate detective. His position was in the shadows of an alley that was almost opposite Ouma’s house, just on the edge of the area the streetlight lit. It worked because from Ouma’s angle, the streetlight was directly in his eyes if he looked at the place Saihara was standing, and so the figure dressed in all dark clothing wouldn’t be visible. He’d hid his phone screen with some part of his body or clothing, Ouma couldn’t make out what about him had moved to obscure it. He couldn’t keep the bitter grin off his face, it was the perfect hiding spot. It wouldn’t always work though, not when he was in front of his house. Saihara must have several hiding spots that he can move between if he really did follow Ouma every day. It infuriated him how well thought through it was.

‘Is he your boyfriend now?’ He dodged the subject, but thankfully Ouma didn’t need to pursue it anymore. He was perfectly happy to move on.

‘I haven’t decided anything.’ He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to be so honest with Saihara. Did he value Saihara’s thoughts? Even though they would clearly be biased?

‘Don’t you like him?’ Ouma’s brow pulled downwards into a frown at the message. It was a logical step, it made sense that Saihara would ask that he supposed. He thought the answer would be automatic, but his fingers hovered, no inclination to start typing of their own accord as they sometimes did. He shook his head to snap him out of his short zone out. Of course he liked Amami, what reason did he have not to? He’d already gone through this.

‘He’s great,’ he settled on sending. It was fine. It was true.

‘Do you want to live with him?’ It was frustrating how much Saihara knew, but at the same time it did make conversations easier sometimes. No explanation or exposition needed.

‘Yes.’ That answer was easy, and it was just as true as his last. He did _want_ to live with Amami, it was that he didn’t want the living with Amami to end. That was the problem. There was a slightly longer pause than normal before Saihara’s next message came through. Ouma had thought for a moment that he might have left, straining his eyes to try and see the spot where Saihara had been standing.

‘He can have you in his house, and he can have you as his boyfriend, but remember that your life belongs to me. Nothing will change that.’ His heartbeat felt irregular as he read the somewhat threatening text. In annoyance, he started typing.

‘Amami doesn’t want to kill me.’ It was a strange sentence to send, but Saihara only cared about being the one to kill Ouma, and he was pretty sure Amami wouldn’t be treading on his toes there, regardless of Ouma’s own feelings on not wanting to be killed by anyone. Again, another longer pause between messages. He could have sworn he saw a movement, but it just as easily could have been nothing.

‘When it all goes wrong, come back to me.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	21. Unfair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lots of things are unfair"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have added a couple of tags and just wanted to briefly address one of them. Following a comment on the previous chapter I have added the 'underage' tag by request since the characters are written with the intention of being under 18. The underage tag was not previously on this fic because I am also writing with the intention of using laws I am familiar with - in the UK the age of sexual consent is 16. The characters in this are 16-17 (they are in high school, but not the last year), and while they are under 18, they are over 16. They will never be treated as though they are underage for sex, because as far as anyone in this story is concerned, they are not.
> 
> I am not aware of anywhere on ao3 that states how they intend the underage tag to be used, if there is somewhere it is officially stated I would like to know so please do share it. I hope this all makes sense, I did think the ages were fairly clear considering they are in high school but I do not want to upset anyone that does not want to read content with characters under 18.

The weekend was harder than most. Ouma had sleepily made his way out of his bedroom in search of anything he could find to eat. He’d found that while he was very grateful to Amami for providing him with food, eating more regularly during the weeks meant that he really felt the hunger pangs when it came to the weekends. Often, he would just keep himself locked up studying in his room for as long as he could, only making hasty trips to and from the bathroom, but this time the force by which his body cried out made him wander.

His whole body locked up on the spot when he saw his father, stern eyes fixated back on him. Those stony, grey eyes held more fury in them than normal. Usually they lacked feeling, as if everyday was simply a routine. His father had always resented that they looked so dissimilar, he’d taken more after his mother, her colourful palette that now lacked the energy it held in old pictures. Maybe that was why he could hurt his own son without a moment of remorse, because they had so many differences. All the same, they were clearly family, there were features that they shared, even if not so obvious. The same thin nose, the same round face shape, the same long fingers, there were definitely similarities in places. But the most striking things about him were the way his hair colour faded to almost violet at the ends, his vibrant wide eyes and sickly pale skin. All features he only shared with his mother.

As his father approached him with a face of burning rage and clenched fists, Ouma knew he’d made a mistake. Though he didn’t know what had happened, _something_ must have happened. He was never told the details of his parents’ lives, he didn’t need to know. All he knew was that when things went badly for them, things went badly for him.

It was a long weekend.

 

While he readied himself for school on Monday, he couldn’t help but wince at himself whenever he caught sight of his own reflection, or a glimpse of intensely bruised skin as his clothing moved. He wondered if he would even need a cover up story. The only person that would probably ask is Amami, and he already knew what was going on. He decided it was best to make one up in case a teacher asked. They rarely did, but showing up with a swollen black eye, the deep reds and purples stark against his paper-like skin, could spark some interrogation. There was nothing he could do to hide it. Even if he could, the burst vessels in his eye would still give it away easily. The bright crimson pressed against the edge of his iris was almost sort of mesmerising, and concerningly attention-grabbing.

He felt the eyes of the other commuters on him as he made his way to school, his paranoia causing him to attempt to shrink himself and keep his face down while he travelled. He felt so sure they were all looking at him, or trying not to stare. Maybe he should have tried to get hold of an eyepatch or something. He reminded himself of his story, if anyone asked he wouldn’t be able to stutter or be unsure, he had to have his story straight. He would claim he was mugged over the weekend when popping out to the shop. The mugger punched him first, and then threatened him, so he gave him his wallet. The teachers would know he lived in quite a poor area, these things happen. It would be fine. They wouldn’t know any different. It would be fine.

 

“Whoa!” Amami couldn’t help his sudden exclamation once Ouma turned to him from his locker. Ouma wasn’t surprised, it was a little shocking to behold. The other boy quickly shushed himself, leaning in closer. “What happened?” he whispered, eyes softened, body curled in towards Ouma.

“I don’t know,” Ouma began with a sigh, keeping himself close to Amami so that his voice didn’t carry, “he was just really pissed about something and, well, yeah.” He finished his statement through gritted teeth.

“That’s,” Amami began, his voice indignant. He paused, seemingly not sure how to even continue. “That’s horrible,” he murmured, voice threatening to break as he spoke. Amami seemed more upset about it than anyone.

“It happens,” Ouma grumbled, trying to cheer the other up, but from the way he shifted up straighter and sharply looked at him, it did not have the effect he wanted it to.

“It happens?” His tone was higher than normal, “that doesn’t make it okay.” Ouma knew that, though he had to admit that hearing it from someone else was sort of nice. Reassuring. “It’s just,” he continued, his lips settled into a deep frown. “So unfair.” Ouma let out a deep breath. It was unfair.

“Lots of things are unfair,” he quietly replied, it wasn’t like he was the only person suffering. Amami shook his head.

“It’s, it’s not good,” it looked like he was struggling for words. It was easy for people to only care about the suffering that they could see. “You can’t stay there,” his voice was still low and hushed, but his tone was firm. Ouma pinched his lower lip between his teeth, digging into it slightly too hard when the shrill bell rang out through the hall. Scuttling away, Ouma knew that this would be a topic for later.

 

As they travelled back from school, they both avoided mentioning anything about Ouma’s appearance or weekend, the conversation stunted and tense. Once they were on the train, standing due to the overcrowding, Amami brought it up softly.

“Does it hurt?” Ouma wondered what kind of injuries Amami had experienced.

“Not unless I touch it,” he explained, looking anywhere but at the other boy.

“It looks really sore,” Ouma didn’t respond, the conversations nearby running into their ears instead. “Especially your eye,” Amami continued after a moment of silence, “it’s really red.” It wasn’t exactly a common thing to see, someone walking around in broad daylight with half their eye dyed in blood.

“It’s not really,” he reiterated, it really wasn’t painful anymore. Injuries around the eye usually looked way worse than they were, even though a lot of the time it didn’t affect vision or even hurt after the initial cause. Other parts of him certainly did hurt though. His ribs and back had been killing him all day, the bruising around the sides of his body had been the worst. Thankfully no one could see those though.

“You should go to a doctor at least,” Amami insisted, one hand placed loosely on his hip as if scolding a child.

“No,” Ouma spoke more to himself than to Amami.

“Why?” He pushed for a proper answer.

“They would,” the words he had thought of regularly were harder than he expected to say aloud to another person. He swallowed back his first attempt and tried again. “They would ask questions.” Amami seemed to understand what he meant at least, from the way he seemed to back down. His hand fell from his hip into his pocket, the other hand still gripped firmly on the handrail. His head tilted slightly, a small sound of thought breaking through from the back of his throat. He seemed to think better of whatever he was going to say, instead remaining quiet for a minute before making light conversation again for the rest of their train ride.

Once they were off the train, however, the conversation switched back to seriousness.

“You really shouldn’t stay there,” Amami began, the topic returning from nowhere, “it’s not safe for you.”

Ouma bit back the words he wanted to say. He wanted to brush it off and just say that he had nowhere else to go, but he did. He could go to Amami’s house and live there. He still hadn’t decided what would be best, he’d thought through his options but there was no perfect answer. Amami clicked his tongue after Ouma’s following silence. He weaved his arm around Ouma’s, clasping their hands together. The warmth of his hand sent a sense of relaxation through the small boy, needed during this kind of conversation.

“I’m here for you, yeah?” his voice was gentle, welcoming. Ouma gave a wordless nod and tightened his grip. It certainly was nice to have such a caring person so close.

They stopped just down the street from Ouma’s house, their feet halting in almost unison. Ouma closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. He had an idea that what would happen now would be the same as Friday. He was okay with that. Having Amami around him felt nice, holding his hand and hearing him say such reassuring things made him feel good. That’s why he was okay with this.

He opened his eyes again to look up at the taller boy, a smile playing on his own lips before he dipped his head down and closed the distance between them. This time Ouma was fully expecting it. The same kind of radiating warmth that enveloped his hand pressed against his lips. His eyes fluttered closed again as he pushed back into the kiss, returning it. More pressure was placed against him in response, both boys enjoying the moment. Amami’s lips lifted away from Ouma’s first, he blinked his eyes open hesitantly, the other boy dipping back in for a swift peck on the lips before actually leaning away. Ouma felt the corner of his mouth pull up into a smile, Amami was being playful.

“So, you’re okay with all this, right?” Amami checked, his free hand absently moving up to touch the ends of his smooth looking hair.

“Y-yeah,” Ouma’s voice quivered as it left him, he wasn’t sure why. He nodded quickly to try to show an enthusiasm his voice had opted to lack.

“Good,” Amami’s warm smile beamed back at him. He didn’t press any further about the whole living together thing before Ouma went back inside his house. He was glad.

 

Saihara’s words had been constantly nagging at Ouma’s mind. He paid attention to Amami, but Ouma couldn’t work out what Saihara could have possibly meant. Amami was kind to him, and was always hanging around people, so what could he be hiding? He couldn’t have been _doing_ anything bad during the day because someone would see him. Did he have some sort of little private hobby that Saihara had caught him doing? Did Saihara start following Amami too? Ouma didn’t like the idea of that. He needed Saihara to stay away from Amami. Far away. Amami was someone who should never be in contact with a horrible person like Saihara.

Amami caught him during his zoned out thinking, blank face in his locker. The older boy interrupted him from his thoughts with a gift of lunch, very much appreciated as always. They made light conversation laughing about nothing until the bell rang, signalling that they would next see each other after school.

Amami was always so crowded at lunchtime, there was never any point in even trying to spend that time with him. Morning between classes was the best time for them to hang out, everyone still talking to each other about what they were up to the night before. He supposed it was easiest for Amami to slip away from his friends during those kinds of talks.

He wondered why Amami had started talking to him in the first place. It because of the missed morning classes, but it seemed like a hassle for the popular boy to escape his friends, so why had he made the effort? Why had he even noticed that he’d missed those morning classes? There were plenty of people crowded around the lockers, and the lockers were placed in year groups, so Amami’s locker wasn’t in the same area as Ouma’s own one was. The more he thought about it, the more strange it seemed. Maybe he should just ask Amami? He balled his hands into fists to psyche himself up. Yeah, he could just ask about it.

 

As the pair made their way to the train station after school, Ouma plucked up as much courage as he could muster. During their next drop in conversation, he asked what had been on his mind. At first, his lips just moving without sound, he noticed those emerald eyes watching him, intrigued by what the next words to actually leave him would be.

“Why did you start talking to me?” he managed to squeak out, the sentence quieter at the end as he began to lose his nerve. What if Amami got mad at the question? Or offended? He squinted his doe eyes, waiting for the reaction. Instead of anything negative, however, Amami just started talking with his casual smile ever present.

“I noticed you started missing classes, so I wanted to make sure you were alright. I was just worried is all,” he ruffled the back of his own hair, making parts of it stuck up at different angles. His hairstyle was kind of messy and unkept, but his hair looked silky. It somehow made his whole look appear more styled, but it must be easy to cope with. Ouma’s own hair was always slightly too long, he didn’t have the money to go to a hairdresser so he always cut it himself with whatever scissors he could find. He never wanted to take too much off, he didn’t know what he was doing after all, but a trim is easy, right? Anyone can trim their own hair. He was always surprised at how hard it was. It always ended up uneven, clumping into separate sections that flicked outwards and upwards of its own accord. It always felt rough, like the ends of his hair were split immediately upon cutting them. His scissors probably weren’t anywhere near sharp enough.

“Why did you notice I was missing classes?” he pressed for more information, Amami looked at him wordlessly so Ouma continued, “It’s not like we really spoke before, I mean, so you kind of came out of nowhere. It’s not like we have the same classes or anything, and my own classmates didn’t say anything, so it was kind of, yeah,” he rambled, fidgeting as they stepped aboard the train, finding a spot to stand quickly. There was no point even looking for seats at that kind of time.

“Oh, I see,” Amami hummed, looking up towards the overhead plastic ring he held for stability as the train began to rock and move. “I suppose you can blame my sister for that,” his voice held humour, but the statement was even more confusing for Ouma.

“Your sister?” he echoed blankly.

“Ah,” Amami let out a laugh to himself at Ouma’s confusion, “I think she knows your friend. The one you said liked Danganronpa too much.” Ouma felt his heart pound against his ribcage, the conversations around him becoming muffled and unintelligible. He could almost hear the blood pulsing around his body. He tried to take a deep breath, tried to clear out the submerged feeling. His clothes began to stick to his skin.

“She,” Ouma mouthed, barely any sound escaping. He took in a deep breath and tried again. “She does?”

“Guess so,” Amami shrugged, oblivious to Ouma’s shock, “she told me that her friend knew someone from my school, her description seemed to match you. That’s when I noticed you were missing sometimes in the morning and spoke to you to make sure everything was okay.” Ouma focussed on keeping his breathing even, his heart rate beginning to drop, or at least feel less like it was pounding against his chest. It made sense. Looking out for a friend of a relative’s friend. It was something a good person would do. It was definitely big brotherly.

“What’s her name?” he inquired, the world no longer swimming around him, “I don’t remember my,” he paused for a moment, biting his tongue and continuing, “friend saying anything about an Amami.”

“Ah, of course he wouldn’t of, she refused to change her name when our parents got married.” His green eyes closed with his bright smile. “She saw her name as a big part of her identity I guess, it makes sense, I’m not sure I’d want to change my name just because someone else decided to get married.”

That was an interesting point of view. Ouma thought about his own name, it would definitely be weird to suddenly start going by something different. He probably wouldn’t even realise people were talking to him sometimes, not like there were many people starting up random conversations with him anyway.  

“She actually kept her father’s name, she didn’t change it when they got divorced either so I guess she must be really attached to it.” Ouma nodded in understanding, it would be weird. “Anyway,” Amami cleared his throat, realising that he’d been distracted from the original question. “Her name, it’s Kaede Akamatsu.”

Ouma’s breath hitched. Akamatsu. The name clicked instantly. Saihara’s friend. The blonde girl he’d seen in the pictures, the one that loved history and wanted to join Danganronpa to be a part of some great betrayal. Someone like that was related, albeit through marriage, to Amami? Sensing his recognition, Amami’s head tilted. “Do you know her?” Ouma shook his head side to side vigorously as they exited the train.

“I think Sai-,” he stopped himself before finishing the name, although Amami must have also known who her friend was, “I think my friend has mentioned her before.” He didn’t want to get into what he had mentioned about her. Knowing that Amami was already upset by her wanting to join that show at all, he didn’t want to go into the details of why she wanted to. Amami seemed to accept that reasoning.

They walked in silence for a short time, their hands finding each other again. Ouma leaned in a little closer to the larger boy, feeling some of his heat against the side of his body.

“Have you given any more thought to living with me?” Ouma tensed at the topic.

“I,” he hesitated, trying to straighten out the words he wanted to say in his head. “I have been thinking about it.” It wasn’t a lie, he had been thinking about it a lot. It was hard to think of anything else really. It was a big thing.

“And?” Amami urged.

“I-I,” he cursed his stuttering, incredibly uncomfortable about the subject, “I don’t know.” Amami nodded, Ouma had been expecting a much larger reaction.

“That’s fine,” he instead comforted, “the offer is always there for you.”

It was a good to know that the option was there, even if he was too terrified to take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Little bit of a long intro but I wanted to make sure everyone was on the same page. This is just a bit of fun for everyone on their off time, I don't want it to be the cause of any personal upset.


	22. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I should visit your house"

****

On Wednesday morning Ouma noticed that his black eye was going down. It was much less swollen, and the colours were fading. It wasn’t so dark anymore, just a grey shadow around his eye, a few reds marbled through the skin. At least the injury in plain sight was fading, bitterness aimed at the two wounds that, though less sticky than they had been, still existed.

The days began to feel a lot alike. Though he was grateful for Amami, and enjoyed his company, even their conversations were becoming more and more similar. Lunch giving and pleasantries in the morning, slight prying on the walk home. It was good to always have someone there, but he wouldn’t mind it if things could be a little more exciting. Having a set daily routine wasn’t always great.

The day had sped by, and before he even knew it, they were near his house, hand in hand, facing one another. Their bodies were close, leaning in towards one another as their lips met softly. Amami’s hand tightened around Ouma’s as they pressed in against each other, enjoying the warm kiss. They broke apart, Amami’s downturned eyes looking not quite into Ouma’s own. He was probably looking at what was left of the mark on his face.

“Have you thought any more about living with me?” he asked, the question sounding very familiar. Ouma gave a curt nod, while he had still been thinking about it, that did not mean he had anything even close to an answer. Amami gave a nod back in response, a small, hesitant movement. Like he’d be shot down. Ouma rubbed his lips together, finding the determination to speak up.

“I should visit your house,” his voice shook with the words, knuckles whitening around his bag handle. He was nervous to even watch for Amami’s reaction, eyes having dropped while he spoke. He slowly scanned them back up to the other’s face, taking in the bright smile wore there.

“That’s a great idea,” he agreed, wiggling their connected hands in excitement. “You should definitely see it first before you make any big decisions!” That was one way to look at it. It would do. At least it took the pressure off of giving an answer right now.

“How about Friday?”

The date was set. Friday after school he would visit Amami’s house, and go home in the evening. Just like his arrangement with Saihara had been. Maybe he was fonder of a set schedule than he originally believed.

 

Thursday was full of anxiety. Ouma wondered how he would feel when Friday actually came around. Going somewhere new was always nerve wracking, though he wasn’t sure what he was so afraid of. Was he worried he would like it there a lot? Was he worried that he would hate it? Every option had its downfalls. Amami just seemed excited all day, eyes glittering and wide smiles. Was he house proud? Was he just happy because it was another step forward?

Amami’s smiles were infectious, his aura of cheeriness contagious. He was a real mood maker, nothing at all like Ouma. He really did wonder what Amami could possibly see in him. Amami was wonderful, kind, attractive and likeable. Ouma was quiet, forgettable, weak and pathetic. Although he really didn’t believe, or really didn’t want to believe, Amami was only there out of pity, it was hard to completely ignore the possibility when put together like that. Did Amami see him as some kind of fixer upper? Once the thought entered his mind, it was stuck there. Was Amami trying to better him in some way? Thinking he could fix him?

Ouma already felt like he was improving while he was spending time with Amami. Becoming a little more confident and vocal was a big one. Though it was only around the other boy, it was still something. Was it even really a bad thing if Amami did see him as some sort of project? If he left the situation a better person, it wouldn’t be a bad outcome. At the same time, he didn’t want to be seen like that. A project. Incomplete. He was a person. Was he the person he wanted to be? Not yet, but he didn’t need someone else to come along and help him, he just needed more time.

He bit into the lid of his pen. He was just frustrating himself with this line of thinking. Maybe Amami was hanging out with Ouma in order to improve him or whatever, but maybe he wasn’t. What did it matter? They were hanging out and it was good. No need to overcomplicate it.

“Are there any house rules I need to know about for tomorrow?” he asked as they walked back from school, expectantly facing upwards.

“No, not really,” Amami sheepishly responded, scratching at his face. “Oh, but take your shoes off at the door.” That was a classic rule, not one that applied in Ouma’s household, but one most other people seemed to follow.

“You must keep a clean house,” Ouma insisted despite Amami’s gestures to refute it. He did wonder how Amami kept his house. A boy living on his own doesn’t necessarily sound like a recipe for a well-maintained home, but then again Amami seemed responsible so maybe it would be nice. He would have to wait and see. Would Amami be the kind of person to fill their house with ornaments? Plants? Photos? Thinking about it more, getting to see the inside of a house someone lived in by themselves could be very telling about that person. Intimate almost.

“Maybe you’ll like the place so much you won’t want to leave,” he joked, his smile meeting his eyes, hands gripping the handrails as they positioned themselves on the train. Ouma laughed with him. He didn’t know what other response to give. He had to admit, if another person had said something like that to him, he may have been scared that they were going to do something strange to him. Saihara, for example. But Amami wasn’t someone like that.

Another kiss shared down the road from his house, along with whispers of excitement for the coming day. Amami eager with anticipation, Ouma filled with apprehension.

 

Friday morning came with a dread that Ouma hadn’t had for a while. It wasn’t that he thought things would go badly, he was sure it was just nerves. He couldn’t quite place _why_ he was so nervous though. It was just going to be him and Amami, just in a slightly different setting. It would be fine.

He was handed his lunch between classes as always, the taller boy buzzing with excitement next to him. Ouma’s anxiety over being listened in on increased, but the other had no qualms with talking about it publicly so making a scene of it would only make things worse.

“Why are you so excited?” Ouma blurted, the words leaving him suddenly. Amami’s smile didn’t falter.

“I’m just excited for you to see my house, I think you’ll like it.” His smile was innocent and happy. Ouma didn’t doubt his words. At the same time, his thoughts from before returned. If it was someone else saying this, acting like this, he would be sure that something bad was going to happen. He continued trying to convince himself that since it was Amami, nothing bad would happen. Amami wouldn’t do anything weird like he was thinking. His attempt at persuading himself not to think that way did nothing to slow the thumping of his heart.

The day drew to a close, the final bell crying out as everyone around him rushed to gather their belongings and get home. As usual, Ouma didn’t rush with them, instead collecting his things at his own pace and leaving the class calmly. Amami was waiting in the same place as always. He waved once he spotted Ouma, intertwining their hands immediately upon greeting. Ouma squirmed slightly, pulling back on his hand as if trying to alert Amami that he had done this. Amami walked first, leading the way, his firm grip on Ouma’s hand not wavering. Ouma stopped his wriggling and walked with the other boy.

“Are you okay with us, you know,” Ouma mumbled, facing away from Amami, “holding hands so close to the school.” He wasn’t sure whether his words got to him or not, he wasn’t exactly trying very hard to be heard. He was about to repeat himself when Amami’s calm voice interrupted him.

“I don’t mind at all,” he explained simply. Ouma was shocked at the words, but held Amami’s hand tighter all the same. He didn’t mind people seeing them like this. Doing this. That meant that he didn’t mind if it wasn’t a secret. But what did that mean? “Do you mind?” he asked, pulling Ouma out of his thoughts, the air suddenly cooler against his skin than it was minutes ago.

“No,” he shook his head vigorously. “W-why would I mind?” he stuttered, the tremble in his knees meeting the rest of his body. Why would he mind if Amami didn’t mind? Amami had more to lose than him, after all. Friends to disapprove of this. Whatever _this_ was. Ouma was afraid of the judgement of his peers, people talking behind his back, but that would just be jealousy, right? They would just act like that because they would be jealous of what he and Amami had, jealous that they didn’t have that with Amami too. It would probably feel good to have something that people were jealous of. He didn’t have much like that. He wasn’t actually sure he had anything like that.

 

Amami’s house was not far from the school at all, a quarter of an hour walk. It made a bit more sense why he didn’t mind taking Ouma back home. Although Ouma lived much further away, the train was fast, cheap and regular, it probably didn’t take much longer for him to get back, though it was still completely out of his way.

“It’s nice not to have to wake up early to travel,” he’d joked, claiming that he’d be nothing without his 12 hours a night. Ouma was sure he wasn’t serious about that, but couldn’t be certain. He laughed nonetheless.

The neighbourhood leading up to Amami’s house was much prettier than Ouma’s neighbourhood. It was still a city, buildings stretching up to the skies on either side of them, but there were fewer narrow alleyways, less litter and the buildings were actually maintained and not left to flake and crumble and rot. He wondered what went through Amami’s mind when they walked to Ouma’s home. He must have been horrified.

They finally stopped at an apartment complex, one that was much flashier than Saihara’s. It had a lobby where there were seats and even a member of staff behind a desk. Ouma stuck close to Amami, their hands still firmly knit together. A quick, polite greeting was shared between the girl behind the desk and the boy he was clung to before they went through a set of wide-open glass doors to the elevator lobby. Ouma remained quiet, for some reason not wanting the stranger to hear their conversation. The whole lobby area was uncomfortably silent.

Thankfully the elevator arrived quickly, the pair sliding in. Amami pressed the button for floor 6, the ring around the black button lighting up immediately. It was like a hotel. He became more excited to see what Amami’s apartment looked like, he started to imagine opening the door to a huge space, clear balcony doors overlooking miles of greenery. Of course, he knew that couldn’t be the case. There were no trees nearby, the other buildings would probably even block out any light. It was still nice to imagine.

The elevator moved swiftly with only a slight rumbling, the doors gliding open just as smoothly as they did before. Amami led Ouma by the hand out of the elevator and along the hallway. It was clean and plain, white walls and a wooden floor, but the simplicity of it made it feel spacious. Amami’s apartment wasn’t far from the elevator, and thankfully there was no dinging noise or anything when it reached each floor. Only releasing Ouma’s hand to fish out his keys, Amami unlocked the door and beckoned the smaller boy in. Taking small, shy steps, Ouma moved just inside the door and took in everything he could see.

 

Amami was quite fashionable and stood out so much that it was surprising how _normal_ the home looked. Cream walls, wooden floor. Slightly darker than the hallway, but still kind of boring. The apartments were probably all modelled in the same way. There was a small step upwards after the door, shoes were to be removed before the step like in a lot of homes, and from his position by the door he could see a light brown fabric sofa on one side, and a kitchen island on the other. There were two closed doors ahead of him, symmetrical, they were probably the bedrooms. A final closed door sat between those two, a smaller room since the door was further back than the other two. It was probably the bathroom. Amami had already taken off his shoes beside him, Ouma quickly following suit and sliding off his shoes as well, adding them to the small rack.

“What do you think?” Amami excitedly asked, having gauged Ouma’s face while he had been glancing around.

“Ah, it’s,” Ouma searched for the right word. While he felt a little underwhelmed by this discovery, he didn’t want to say as much. “It looks really big,” wide open empty spaces. Amami appeared to like that statement, smiling wider and walking ahead into the house. Ouma followed, the floor almost slippery under his socks.

Getting a better look at the rooms revealed a large flat screen TV in the living room, the sofa he had spotted earlier was facing it. A glass table was set up between them. It was tidy, no leftover cups or out of place papers. A small potted cactus sat by itself on the windowsill, a tiny pop of colour. The house was very clean and neat.

“This is the living room,” Amami announced, giving the tour. “I’m kind of a minimalist so there’s not a lot to see really.” It was surprising to hear, though Amami didn’t give the impression of someone who was particularly frivolous. The jewellery he always wore did make Ouma think that he would have more trinkets and possessions than he did though.

“It’s really tidy,” Ouma squeaked, the quiet atmosphere highlighting breaks in their conversations.

Next on the tour was the kitchen and dining area. The kitchen island was set up with two tall chairs, the countertops looked like grey marble. The kitchen appliances and other counters were set up along the wall behind the island. Ouma wondered as he stared at the simple furniture if Amami didn’t really like this house. He didn’t seem to make any effort to customise it, it didn’t feel as though he had decorated anything there at all. Like the apartment could have been sold to him as it was now.

“And the kitchen,” Amami introduced with a flourish of his hand, “the island for dining.” Ouma nodded, there wasn’t really much to say about it.

The whole place was unexpected, but not in any kind of exciting way. They continued to the next stop of their journey.

“This is the bathroom,” he announced, pushing open the door to briefly show the room. White tiles, clean to the point of almost looking surgical. Ouma caught the colour of the liquid hand soap before the door was closed though, bright orange. An almost luminous neon against the shining surfaces. “And the bedrooms,” he pointed towards the two doors on either side of them, apparently with no interest of showing him the inside of either. Ouma silently wondered which of the two was Amami’s, and which was Akamatsu’s. Akamatsu’s one was probably empty.

He wondered what kind of things Amami had inside his own room. Did he have bright, gaudy bedsheets, or were they the same neutral tones as the rest of the house? What were his other clothes like? Maybe he kept his own belongings in his room instead of scattered around the house because he originally thought he would be living with another person?

“What do you think?” Amami hesitantly asked, his face showing an expression indicative of disappointment after he had been so overexcited. Ouma didn’t know what kind of reaction he had expected to this showing.

“It’s really,” another pause, finding the right thing to say. Should he lie and just say nice things about it? Say how clean and tidy it is, how much space there is due to there not being any clutter, things like that? Or should he be honest and say he really felt about it? He puffed out his chest and spoke up. “It’s really empty.” Amami’s eyes widened for a moment at the statement, before relaxing into something more casual that Ouma recognised.

“You’re right, it probably is a bit empty,” he agreed, casting his own eyes around. “There’s that though,” he raised a finger towards the cactus in the living room, “doesn’t he brighten up the place?”

“He?” Ouma echoed, humour in his voice.

“You don’t think he’s a he?” Amami retorted, hands on hips.

“How did _you_ find that out?” Ouma poked back, lips curled into a grin at the childish joking.

“Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? Just look at him!” They both moved closer to the lonely cactus, inspecting it closely.

“Those spines look pretty feminine to me,” Ouma pointed out stoically, his cheerful expression betraying the deadpan delivery.

“No way!” Amami exclaimed, moving his head around to view it from different angles, finding more things to point out.

Their game lasted a while, until they ran out of things they could possibly gender on the plant, finally deciding that ‘he’ was an it, a compromise. The cactus didn’t make any objections, so they figured it must have been fine with the arrangement.

 

Amami made them both a quick dinner, aware of the fact that time getting on, not wanting to keep Ouma out too late. It was just beef and an egg on rice, but it was fantastic. Sitting up at a table and eating a hot, cooked meal was definitely something Ouma would like to do every day. The food had looked easy to make, but cooking rice would take too long in his home. He had heard that a lot of people cook a batch of rice, and then freeze it so that it was faster to cook when they wanted it, but it was still risky. Even using the microwave was pretty off limits, not wanting the loud, shrill ping to wake anybody.

Amami insisted on taking Ouma back home after the visit, Ouma didn’t even consider refusing. Walking home alone later than normal would be terrifying at this point.

As they headed back, Ouma couldn’t help but think how generous and thoughtful Amami really was. He always took him back home, even though he didn’t know that Ouma was afraid to go home alone, he didn’t know about Saihara. Yet, without knowing any of that, he still always made sure Ouma got home safe.

He was the first to lean up into the kiss that night.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! This week has been so busy and just flew by! Before I knew it, it was Thursday evening and I hadn't written a word for this chapter! Bit of writer's block when I did start working on it too, but thankfully powered through it as best I could!


	23. Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thinking about it he didn’t know many things that Amami actually liked.

Having an enjoyable evening was certainly a welcome change of pace for Ouma, but it made the life he returned to feel somehow so much worse. Going from someone who would laugh and smile, hold his hand with gentle warmth and brush their lips together to someone who did nothing but yell, put down and hurt was enough to give him whiplash. Hands that were held delicately, as if something precious, were instead raised in an attempt to defend himself, taking punches instead of his face. It was hard to believe everyone around him even spoke the same language, when the words that Amami said sounded so smooth and comforting and the words that were spat at him now were so filled with resentment and spite.

He wished he had Amami’s number once he was finally in his room again. He wanted to tell him thank you for the evening they’d had together, the soreness in his body making him feel more grateful. At the same time, maybe it was better that he didn’t have his number. He would probably send him pathetic messages at times like this, he could scare the other boy away with his clingy desperation.

Just another weekend. The weekends were all the same. He always told himself, it was just another weekend, it was just another week, he tried to convince himself that time went so much faster than it really did. He wanted time to speed by so he could be done with this section of his life. It was all he knew, but he would be happy when it was over. When he could leave and be self-sufficient and _live_. Just another weekend, just another week, eventually he would get there.

 

What should he ask Amami? He found his mind wondering during class on Monday. On their walks home they tended to probe for more information about each other, so what did he know about Amami so far? His dad was a businessman who was frequently abroad, married an American woman with a daughter, Kaede Akamatsu, who now lives in Japan, attends school and socialises with Saihara, and has some sort of pen pal that she hangs out with. Amami had a high opinion of the pen pal. His parents had an orchard in their house, but Amami and Akamatsu both live in separate apartments paid for by their parents. Amami doesn’t like Danganronpa, has friends that run school clubs and talks to a lot of people. Thinking about it he didn’t know many things that Amami actually liked. He could ask him about his hobbies, he didn’t see anything in the house except for the TV really, nothing that showed how he spent his time. Yes, he would ask him about how he spent his free time when they were on their walk home. A sense of resolve rushed through him as he built up his own courage early, in preparation.

The lunch that day had been homemade, Ouma studied the sandwiches in the box eagerly.

“Since you accused me of buying you unhealthy food all the time,” Amami joked when he had handed Ouma the box. Just sandwiches by themselves were not the most common lunch food eaten by those around them, Ouma had spied a lot of peoples’ lunches while he had been sat by himself ignoring the rumblings of his empty stomach, and most people had segmented bento style lunches. This wasn’t the first time the lunch Amami had prepared had been sandwiches though. Maybe he cooked a lot of Western style food from his step-mother’s influence? He didn’t ask.

The sandwiches were good though.

 

Amami had been at the gate as usual after the final bell rang. General talk about their respective days, more so Amami’s as they walked to the train. The stories ended part way through the train ride, so Ouma hyped himself up again, recalling the resolve he had felt earlier that day.

“What kind of stuff do you like to do?” He blurted out, quickly clarifying with a shaking voice, “after school and at the weekends and, um, do you have any hobbies that you do?” He cursed his inability to ask a simple question without rambling or going back on himself. He envied the way other people could speak their mind so clearly, just say what they meant instead of backtracking and adding all the time.

“Hmm,” Amami hummed aloud as he thought, head tilting slightly as his eyes turned towards the ceiling of the train. “I guess I watch a lot of TV,” he slowly spoke, “I like nature documentaries and travel shows, especially when they show amazing landscapes or mention places that dad’s been.” His face brightened as he continued to talk, he must have been imaging them as he went on. “There really aren’t any sights like that in the city. The lights are nice, and the view from the Tokyo skytree is really something, but it just doesn’t compare to a rainforest full of weird, colourful plants and birds, or a mountain covered in snow where the air is really thin.” Ouma thought it was a wonderful thing to be enamoured by. The beauty of nature, of the world bar humans.

“Have you travelled much?” Ouma poked further, the question rolling off his tongue more naturally, wanting to see more of Amami’s excited side. The taller boy shook his head.

“I’ve been to a couple of places, but they were cities where the conferences and meetings were being held. I guess dad doesn’t really get to go to too many rainforests on business though,” he gave a light laugh, his smile lazy as his hand ruffled his own hair as habit. “I have school and dad has work things to do in those places so I guess it makes sense that I can’t go very often,” he sighed, he sounded dejected. Ouma wondered if he had asked to go with him on more occasions, but got turned down. A silence fell between them, Ouma tried to formulate what words would help cheer Amami back up.

“Well, one day you’ll be done with school and everything and you’ll be able to, to go to all those places,” Ouma tried to sound as positive as he could. Amami looked straight at him, vivid green eyes boring into his skull, before breaking back into a wide smile.

“I’ll go to lots of places and see everything there is to see!” he declared, balling the hand that had been in his hair into a fist and holding it in the air triumphantly. Laughter escaped Ouma’s mouth before he could do anything to hold it back.

 

Tuesday played out in much the same way. Ouma found himself being the one to clutch tightly onto Amami’s hand as they walked, the side of his own body pressing towards Amami instead of the other way around. His time with Amami were the highlights of his day, he didn’t want them to end but each day as they approached his house, he knew it had to. But simultaneously it _didn’t_ always have to. A part of his mind always reminded him of Amami’s offer to live together. Every fibre of his being resonated with it being a bad idea, but occasionally when he found himself particularly valuing the time he spent with the other boy, he was reminded that there was an option to make it so arriving home wasn’t the end of his happiness that day. It could be the beginning.

It was a ridiculous thought, he reminded himself, reprimanding himself for having entertained the idea for even a moment. He had to remember what was at stake, what could go wrong. He couldn’t move in with Amami. He absolutely could not.

They shared their parting kiss, the light squeeze Amami gave his hand just before he let go made Ouma feel like Amami didn’t want them to part either. Like he didn’t want this part of the day to end either. But it had to. But it didn’t _have_ to.

The aggressive buzz of his phone on the floor as he worked through his homework sent a jolt through his body. The sound was almost unfamiliar, almost. He hesitated before picking up the device, torn between being incredibly curious and filled with immense dread. Of course, the message was from Saihara, there hadn’t been any doubt in his mind about that though.

‘You really like him, don’t you?’ Ouma gnawed at his bottom lip as he read the message a few times, trying to peg the tone Saihara intended to write it with. Probably bitterness. He considered not responding at all, but apparently, he wasn’t quite that brave yet.

‘Why do you care?’ he could sound bitter too. The question was kind of a call out, there were plenty of reasons Saihara could care, but it would involve admitting that he was a weirdo stalker. They both knew it, but he was interested in what kind of answer Saihara would attempt to weave in response.

‘You’re special to me,’ this again. Ouma heaved a deep breath, letting his fingers spill out what he needed to get out to Saihara.

‘Yeah, yeah, you can kill me on the show I’m never going to go on, I know.” He hoped his message came across as snarky as he hoped.

‘I can?’ Ouma let out an audible groan, did Saihara seriously take that text as permission? Did he ever actually give Ouma a choice?

‘I didn’t realise I had the choice,’ he was actually quite curious about what the other would have to say about that.

‘You’re mine either way, I was just surprised that you said I could.’ What was wrong with guy?

‘Whatever, I’m not going on the show so you won’t get the chance anyway so it doesn’t matter,’ he just wanted out of this conversation. Was Saihara really this annoyingly dumb? Or was it just for a false impression?

‘That’s what makes this so exciting,’ Ouma fought the shiver that threatened to run through his body. He placed his phone back on the floor and tried not to think about that disturbing conversation as he continued his work.

 

He felt less safe on Wednesday. It had been easy not to think about Saihara for a few days, just focusing on his time with Amami, but now Saihara was back in the forefront of his mind. It was like he could be lurking around any corner again, wary eyes scanning every inch of his journey.

Another sandwich brought in from home by Amami. The sandwiches were different each day, even though they sometimes looked very similar.

He wondered if Amami realised how much Ouma relied on him to walk him back home. He was always there and waiting at the end of each day, but surely Amami had no idea what could be awaiting Ouma if he wasn’t. He hoped that the way he clasped onto Amami immediately was enough of an indicator to tell him that he appreciated it.

Thankfully he didn’t hear anything from Saihara that night either. Unfortunately, his silence wasn’t enough to calm Ouma, his paranoia still going strong into the next day.

 

Thursday was just as anxiety ridden as Wednesday had been. He tried to hold on to the good moments, tried to forget about any semblance of Saihara during those. Forget about the person who was thrilled over the opportunity to kill him for the world to see. Just forget.

“You look kind of tired,” Amami had commented after gifting him a lunch. Ouma had noticed that underneath his eyes were darker than they had been for a while. He couldn’t even blame the black eye anymore now that it was almost completely faded.

“Yeah, I, uh, I haven’t been sleeping very well,” it was true, although not the full story. He had a lot to think about. Saihara and his threats, Amami and his offer. There was a lot going on. He was used to never having to worry about things like that. He always had his own set of worries, but things were pretty simple for the most part. Just survive until he could live the life he wanted, that was all there was to it. Work hard, get out. Now there was more to consider. The prospect of getting out early, but with the risk of it being totally unreliable. The shadow that was Saihara following him at all times with a terrible desire.

“Ah, that sucks,” Amami lightly responded, carefree as ever. “Maybe because it’s getting a bit warmer now?” he offered, making Ouma’s cover up a lot easier.

“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Not a lie, a cover up.

The more time he spent with Amami, the more tempting his offer felt. Staying with someone who was actually nice to him all the time. He had thought it was heaven when he had stayed at Saihara’s one night, and Amami was much better to him than Saihara was. And he could stay there every night. It was unreliable. It was so unreliable. But he wouldn’t have to worry about Saihara at all, right? He always a bit worried when they separated each night in case Saihara did something to Amami. He was sure Amami could stand his ground after he hit Momota and sent him off, but Saihara probably wasn’t afraid to play dirty. If they lived together, neither of them would ever be completely on their own for any length of time. It would be safer in that regard. It relied on so much though. On Amami being willing to keep him there until he had things sorted. Relying on other people wasn’t exactly a strength that Ouma possessed.

 

He laid in bed that night, phone firmly in hand as he browsed online. His thoughts had been keeping him up, so he decided that he needed a distraction. He had gone to bed fairly early with the intention of getting more sleep to get rid of the dark circles, but sleep had not found him so easily. It seemed on the current season of Danganronpa chapter 4 had been dragging a lot. Chapter 4 was always pretty boring, the idea of bringing in a new area that followed a new set of rules started as being an interesting change of pace, but now they were either incredibly predictable or overly complex. It always felt like the longest chapter of the show, though he wasn’t actually sure if it was. Chapter 6 was probably longer, right? But chapter 4 always hit a dragging point that could last for weeks.

His whole body flinched with surprise as his phone started vibrating wildly in his grip. He had expected it to buzz and stop, but it just continued. It was a call, not a text, from the only person that ever communicated with him via his phone. He debated not answering, or declining, but in the end, curiosity won out and he pressed the green button to pick up the call. He shakily sat up, bringing the device to his ear.

“You answered,” the breathy voice on the other side seemed shocked. That made sense, he guessed, it’s not like Saihara was in his good books exactly.

“W-what do you w-want?” he grit his teeth, the tremble in voice hitting his w’s as he spoke.

“I just wanted to hear you,” Saihara was all but panting on the other end, it was odd.

Was he outside? Ouma shifted, pulling his curtains open and sliding his body in between them to peer out. Scanning his eyes over the streets he couldn’t see anyone, he tried to focus on the area around the lampposts, but the lights were too bright to really believe he could see clearly.

“There you are,” the voice on the other end of the phone line gasped, amethyst eyes doubling back over the area again and again until finally he spotted a slight movement in the darkness. It was too near the light for him to be certain it was definitely Saihara, but it would do to tell himself that was where he was.

“W-well you’ve heard me now, so,” his voice was quiet, barely over a whisper, but before he could even finish Saihara spoke up.

“Stay on the phone,” he hissed the command.

“Why?” Ouma closed his eyes, his free hand gripping his windowsill with a mix of frustration and fear. Instead of words, all Ouma could hear was Saihara’s frantic breathing, he could almost feel the huffing on his ear. His stomach turned with uncertainty, the non-response getting to him. “What do you want?” he reiterated, slightly louder but still keeping his volume down.

“Keep talking,” another breathy demand.

“I really don’t get what this is,” Ouma mumbled, more to himself than to Saihara. Did he really just want to hear Ouma’s voice? The panting on the other side of the phone got a little louder, a small whining sound occasionally escaping. It started to dawn on Ouma what might have been happening. “What, what are you doing?” he carefully asked, not even really wanting an answer.

“Keep,” he assumed Saihara would have said ‘keep talking’ again, instead he cut himself off with another heavy breath. Behind all the huffing and puffing he could vaguely make out another sound, the sound of clothes moving, rustling. A repetitive, wet sound.

“Are you really?” Ouma didn’t finish his own question, too astonished and embarrassed to. He could feel heat flooding his face more and more with every gasp and muffled moan that made its way to his ear. He should hang up the phone. He should hang up now and end this. His hand quivered around the phone, but didn’t move it from his ear.

“Really what?” Saihara breathlessly echoed.

“You’re, you’re,” Ouma stuttered, unsure if he would even be able to get the words out at all. “You’re outside right now, you’re, you’re doing that outside,” he voiced his realisation as it happened, a pleasured hum reverberating back to him. “Saihara, you shouldn’t,” he squeaked before being interrupted once more.

“Say that again,” the other boy all but moaned down the phone.

“S-say what again?” Ouma kept his focus on the one area outside where he thought he’d seen the movement, trying to catch sight of anything more.

“My name, say it again.” Wide eyes blinked, the air getting through his closed window cold against his heated face.

“Saihara,” Ouma hesitantly complied, voice low, quiet, uncertain. Upon hearing the other’s breathing pick up again he felt almost empowered. “Saihara,” he whispered again, earning a moan. His heart raced in his chest as he leaned into the phone. “Saihara,” he continuously repeated the name like a chant in a soft voice, Saihara’s lewd noises becoming more and more frequent and muffled, until finally a long grunt came, signalling the end of his fun. Ouma found himself breathing faster as well, shallow breathing matching his rapid pulse.

“Next time it shouldn’t be on the phone,” Saihara spoke once he had recovered his own breathing again, “I miss your body.” Ouma tore the phone from his ear and hit the end call button, far later than he should have.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Time for things to get rolling again!


	24. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something was different. Something clicked. The knowledge that he could do something, perhaps.

Friday morning was faced with a cocktail of emotions. Of course, the initial dread of the Friday routine arose first in the pit of Ouma’s stomach, before quickly being beaten back with the realisation that it wasn’t a thing anymore. He wouldn’t have to go with Saihara today, it was over. He wasn’t sure if that initial panic would ever stop haunting him on those mornings. Then that dread was replaced with the events of last night. The phone call and a mixture of feelings. Guilt was prominent. Though he and Amami weren’t officially anything, he still knew he should have hung up that phone much earlier. What had he even been hoping for?

But that event highlighted more than ever to Ouma, as long as he was there, he would never be safe. Saihara was just the final straw. He was in constant danger from his family, that he could deal with, he had dealt with it his entire life, but the danger that Saihara brought with him was different and frightening. Saihara knew where he lived and how to take advantage of that.

He hurried himself with getting ready for school, attempting to take his mind off of what had happened. His shoulder itched.

 

Between classes Amami approached his locker with a lunchbox, this time it was a more traditional bento box with various items segmented apart from each other. He was surprised to see that it looked to be handmade.

“Looks good right?” Amami raised a second, identical box that he had made for himself.

“It must have taken a while to make, thank you,” Ouma nodded and mumbled his thanks, tucking the box into his bag. He could barely bring himself to meet Amami’s kind eyes.

“Eating the same kind of thing can get boring, so I decided to change it up,” he explained in a cheerful voice, making pointless gestures with his decorated fingers. Ouma simply nodded his agreements until the bell rang out.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. What should he have done differently? He shouldn’t have answered the phone at all, but when he realised his phone had been ringing, his curiosity wouldn’t let him just leave it. He should have hung up when he realised what was happening. He definitely shouldn’t have played along. The memory of his own weak voice echoing Saihara’s name over and over again for the other’s pleasure was still fresh in his mind. The heat rose to his face as his brain replayed the sounds Saihara had been making on the other end of the phone. Had he really been _that_ excited just at the sound of Ouma’s voice? What was it that made him so special to Saihara anyway? He just didn’t get it. He buried his probably reddened face against his hand, in an attempt to hide it from the rest of the class.

He poked at his lunch with the chopsticks Amami had provided. The food was good, the vegetables tasted fresh and everything had been cut neatly into star-like shapes. He had made more effort than Ouma had realised. He felt bad for not having had a proper look at it before. Amami was really looking out for him.  

 

At the ring of the final bell, he met Amami at the school gates and handed him back the empty lunchbox.

“It was really good,” Ouma smiled up at the other boy, who beamed in return.

“I’m glad,” he breathed out a sigh of relief. “I was worried this morning that you didn’t like the look of it,” he admitted, juggling the lunchbox into his other hand so that the hand nearest Ouma could slip against his smaller hand.

“Ah, no, it was really good,” Ouma shakily confirmed.

Their small talk continued as normal for their walk to the train, and throughout their train ride. Amami had a lot of stories that day. Ouma envied his ability to freely fit in with such a variety of people, even though he wouldn’t want the same for himself. He wasn’t interested in the people around him, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt to be able to interact more fluidly. They departed from the train at Ouma’s station, and during their walk from there to Ouma’s house, Amami started a more serious line of questioning.

“Have you thought any more about moving in with me?” he kept his voice low, speaking only to Ouma as they walked, hand in hand. Ouma was silent for a moment, his hand tightening around Amami’s.

“I’ve,” he started breathlessly, before pausing to gather himself. “I’ve thought more about it.” He could feel Amami lean in more towards him.

“And?” he urged, excitement lining his voice. Ouma smacked his lips, trying to think of the best words to convey his thoughts exactly.

“Um, I’m still not really sure but, um, maybe?” his uncertainty escaped him as a question that only seemed to make the other want answers to.

“Maybe?” he repeated back to Ouma, face turned to the smaller boy. He sort of cursed himself for having said that word, if he had just said that he still wasn’t sure it probably would have avoided this. He did have to admit that the offer was beginning to look more promising though. The more Amami did for Ouma, the more intimidating Saihara became, the more he wanted to take him up on this offer. It still felt like a massive commitment though, since he would be unwilling to return home for fear of his own life after staying away from home for any real length of time. That was what still held him back.

“Maybe,” Ouma simply echoed the word back, finality in his tone. That was all Amami would get form him today. As normal they shared their kiss a short distance from Ouma’s home, but unlike normal Ouma could almost feel eyes on him. Usually he didn’t think about who could be watching them, instead focusing entirely on the kiss itself, but this time he could almost feel something boring into his back as their lips made contact.

 

‘Maybe’ the word glared back at him from his illuminated phone screen. It seemed the sensation of being watched had not just been a feeling. His canine tooth dug into his lip as he stared at the message. There wasn’t really a response he could pull together for it. He’d heard the conversation, obviously. He put his phone to the side. It didn’t buzz again for the rest of the night.

The weekend passed like most others, but something was different. Somewhere amongst the violence and insults and venom something clicked. The knowledge that he could do something, perhaps. The knowledge that even if he didn’t have any human worth to his parents, there was someone in the world that did care about him. A mental shift that made the weekend into something more bearable. Even as he hit the ground, whimpered and cowered, he was somehow more disconnected than usual. Each strike hurt his body, but his mind stayed strong. This didn’t have to be happening. It was a dangerous line of thought, but welcome in the moment.

 

Another Monday rolled around, greeted with the aches and bruising that came after the weekend. Nothing noticeable this time, all of his new bruises were securely under his uniform. That made things easier at least. He made his way to school without the need to scout every inch of his journey with wide, alert eyes, instead settling for staring straight ahead as he dragged his feet down his usual commute. Nothing was different for it. His wariness only served to make him more anxious, he never saw anything, even if there was something to be seen.

He received his lunch gratefully from Amami, this time peering into the box before placing it in his bag, making eye contact and thanking him properly. Amami’s response was a lazy waving gesture and the insistence that it was nothing, but Ouma could see that he appreciated the gratitude. At lunch Ouma confirmed that despite his thoughtlessness on Friday, Amami had still made the same effort to make a neat, healthy and tasty bento box for him. He really was too good for him. For once that didn’t resonate with him as a negative. Usually that thought made him want to back off, but now he could see that reaction made no sense. Someone who is too good should not be let go of. It was a rarity to find a person like that, after all.

After school they met as normal, Ouma returning the lunchbox immediately. Amami moved his bag and the box around, freeing the hand closest to the shorter boy, which Ouma took with renewed vigour. Amami’s fingers squeezed around his hand in response. As per normal Amami comfortably filled the air between them with small talk and stories of his day and the people he had been around. It was still pleasant to listen to, even though he didn’t know the people that Amami was talking about.

After their train ride a quiet fell upon them, Amami shifted beside Ouma as if he wanted to talk, but was uncomfortable bringing up the subject. Ouma knew what he wanted to talk about. This time he allowed himself to start the conversation.

“I’ve thought more,” Ouma stated, silence greeting him, “about the offer,” he clarified softly.

“Oh?” Amami’s lips pulled in at the sides in question, all attention on Ouma. He felt a twisting in his gut, but he was the one who put himself on the spot this time.

“I,” he dragged out the sound, letting it ride for as long as he could get away with, anxiety fighting against him finishing his thought. “Want to do it.” A long pause settled between them at the statement.

“Really?” Amami finally gasped, pulling Ouma’s whole arm towards his body playfully. Ouma nodded back to him. “When?” He continued to question, seemingly giddy with this turn of events.

“I don’t have much to bring,” he mumbled, unsure of what would be an acceptable timeline.

“You can move in whenever you like, even tomorrow would be fine!” Amami’s words travelled faster from his lips than his usual speech.

“Tomorrow?” Ouma repeated, it sounded far too near, far too terrifying. He could feel his heartrate rapidly increase, pounding in his ears. Amami’s distinct hair bounced as he nodded. “Tomorrow,” Ouma breathed, decided. He felt sick. Amami grinned brightly back at him.

Ouma spent that evening packing away his few belongings into an old duffel bag he used to use for gym clothes. He filled it with his spare school uniform and the few sets of clothes that he owned, pulling the drawstring tight. His clothes, his phone and his school bag filled with his work and textbooks, those would be the only things going with him. There was nothing else he really needed. Things like toothbrushes could be replaced. He was sure Amami would think ahead enough to have things like that in for him. His hands trembled as he set everything to the side. He was really going to do this. A cold, tight sensation irritated the bottom of his oesophagus as his heart continued to rage in his chest. He was going to do this. He would be safe.

 

Tuesday morning, he swung the duffel bag onto his back, holding his school bag firmly in his hand. He hesitated at the door, turning around to look over the house again. A final time. His parents were never around at this sort of time, either asleep or out so he was used to leaving for school on his own. But knowing he wouldn’t see them again, hopefully for a very long time, maybe never again, still weighed heavily in his chest. Fear played a part. The fear of leaving, then being forced into a situation where he would have to return. The fear that the next time he saw the inside of his house would be the worst day of his already miserable life. At the same time, they were still his family. A family he was turning his back on without another word. He wouldn’t return, they would be unable to go to the police due to the state of themselves and their parenting. They wouldn’t want anything bad to come out in that kind of situation. They were the people he saw just about every day of his life. They were cruel, but they were still his parents. Just leaving felt wrong, but after all of this it was the only thing he could do. It was his only chance of living the life he wanted.

He jolted when Amami tapped his shoulder between their morning classes. The lunchbox was handed to him, the last time Amami would need to give it to him at school. He felt a little sentimental at the thought of not having that moment each day, but it would be better.

“Do you have everything with you?” Amami questioned, keeping his voice low and private. Ouma nodded, gesturing to the bag securely in his locker. “Is that it?” Amami hesitantly checked, he sounded very unsure.

“Yeah, that’s everything,” Ouma confirmed. Amami’s downturned eyes softened, Ouma guessed it was the thought that all of his belongings could fit in a bag small enough to shove in his locker.

“Good,” Amami tightened his lips and gently placed his hand against the back of Ouma’s shoulder. The petite boy flinched away from the touch, eyes flicking around to assess anyone that may have seen the action. Amami gave him a lazy smile when their eyes met again, just in time for the bell to ring.

 

After the final bell he gathered up his belongings but didn’t head straight to the school gate. He instead went to his locker, the normally crowded area eerily quiet. People usually left straight from the last class, getting anything they needed to take home before then. The clang of metal on metal rang out through the silent hallway, his hands quickly grabbing the door of his locker and pulling it away from the neighbouring one it had hit into. The sound still echoed despite his frantic movement. He let out his held breath as he reached in and pulled out the bag, swinging it onto his back as he had done that morning. His stomach swirled with nerves, that cold sensation returning to his chest as he shakily closed and locked the door to his locker again. Deep breaths. Everything would be better soon.

He felt like his whole body was quivering as he walked alongside Amami, away from the train station. His breaths felt ragged and uneven, but the other didn’t mention it, instead going through their usual retelling of their days. It couldn’t have been that noticeable then, it was probably in his head. Amami’s stories felt familiar and comforting, so he tried to focus on those.

The same girl was sat behind the polished desk of the lobby. She nodded politely to them both, Amami returning the gesture as they passed the glass doors to the elevator lobby. It really did just feel excessive. Amami was very lucky. His clammy hand tightened around Amami’s, leaning in close as the elevator reached the ground floor.

The flat was as plain as he remembered it being. He scouted around for any obvious changes as he removed his shoes, but it was all the same as before. Clean, empty, barely lived in.

“What do you want for dinner? I can make something a bit more exciting than last time since, you know, you don’t have to go,” Amami couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he spoke, it almost looked like it could ache. You don’t have to go. The same sick feeling from the night before returned, burning at the back of his throat.

“J-just something simple is fine,” his voice trembled as he spoke, sounding far weaker than he expected. As his own words reached his ears, he realised he sounded like he was about to cry, though he didn’t feel any impending tears. “I’m not really that hungry,” he whispered, pushing down the tightness in his throat.

“Hey,” Amami dragged out the word in a smooth tone, taking a couple of large steps towards Ouma. “It’s okay,” he accompanied the comforting words with a loose arm around Ouma’s shoulders. He let himself step into the touch. “This is probably really nerve-wracking, right?” he kept his voice soft, his free hand lightly stroking up and down Ouma’s upper back.

“Y-yeah,” Ouma nodded, the delicate touches sending tingling sensations across his skin.

“Go unpack your things, I’ll make something light,” he moved the hand that was stroking his back to instead ruffle his hair, sending him a smile with closed eyes. Ouma nodded again, letting Amami pull away from him and move back towards the small kitchen area.

“W-where?” Ouma stuttered, the word bouncing across the surrounding walls. Amami turned back to him, and pointed towards the door on the left, before returning to his journey to the kitchen. Ouma shrugged the bag from his back, gripping it in the same hand as his school bag. He turned the round doorknob, the door swinging open freely, revealing even more cream painted walls. He let himself into the room, placing his schoolbag down next to the king size bed. He surveyed the room, again still neat and lifeless. The bed was dressed in white, making the cream walls look darker. There was a bedside cabinet on the far side, just a lamp sitting atop it. He held his duffel bag tightly and walked to the built-in wardrobe to put his clothes away, there wasn’t much else to unpack anyway. He would have to ask if Amami had a toothbrush he could use later. He pulled open the smooth wood doors, pausing when he saw that the space was already occupied. Uniforms similar to his own were hanging up along with sets of clothing far too large for him. This was Amami’s room. Slowly he stalked out of the room, peering out of the door.

“What’s up?” Amami perked up, apparently the flat was pretty quiet and things like doors opening were easy to hear. Or maybe he was already looking over in this direction.

“U-um,” Ouma was unsure how to broach the subject, he just focused on trying to find his voice. “T-this is your room,” he squeaked, a hand tightening against the doorframe anxiously. Amami’s usual carefree grin graced his face again.

“That’s right,” he nodded before quickly snapping his eyes open, his mouth falling open, “oh, unless you don’t want to share with me,” he quickly offered with wide eyes. Ouma shook his head frantically.

“N-no, it’s fine, I just wasn’t sure is all,” Amami seemed to calm quickly, a hand dramatically placed against his chest.

“Ah, good,” he breathed, turning to continue cooking as Ouma slinked back into the room. _Their_ room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!   
> I'm worried that Ouma's decision in this one may come across as too sudden, but it will be explored further, possibly in the next chapter. What did you think of that shift?


	25. Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had all but collapsed onto the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, only able to stare vacantly at the flattened bag in front of him. What was he doing?

The whole situation was overwhelming. His quaking hands were barely able to take the folded clothes from his bag and hang them without dropping them repeatedly. Eventually the items made it up into the wardrobe, Amami’s clothing on the left side, Ouma’s on the right. His own clothes took up much less space than the other’s, both in terms of the amount and the size. Amami’s clothes looked heavier and longer than his. With that simple task out of the way, he had all but collapsed onto the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, only able to stare vacantly at the flattened bag in front of him. What was he doing?

He was finally interrupted, an unknown amount of time passing as he just sat there, unmoving other than his shivers. The door to the bedroom had slowly opened, Amami peering in at him with a soft, warm expression.

“Dinner is ready when you are,” he kept his voice even and quiet, calming. The door had been closed just as gently as it had been opened, leaving Ouma to blink himself back into existence and shift his uncooperative body. He joined Amami momentarily after at the kitchen island, two plates of chicken, vegetables and rice sat on the surface. Amami was already in his seat, it didn’t look like he had started eating yet, a smile instantly gracing his face as Ouma approached and took his own seat.

“Thank you,” the words sounded normal to his ears this time, not like the pathetic, painful vocalisations he had made before. They ate in almost silence, the only sounds between them were hums of enjoyment of the mild meal. Warm food had been a rarity, a treat. His stomach twisted tightly as he realised it would be a treat he could have every day now. Since he was living here.

“Why don’t we relax and watch something after this?” Amami suggested as they both neared the end of their dinners. The last time Ouma had watched TV had been when he was watching Danganronpa. His spine jerked for a moment, he tried to push the uncomfortable sensation down.

“Sounds good.”

 

Unsurprisingly, Amami had not switched on Danganronpa when he started up the large television. It felt odd to be on a sofa with another person again, watching stuff. Amami had found a show about aquatic life, showing different kinds of fish and amazing coral reefs. The TV here was much better quality than the one Saihara had, the colours standing out vividly. Somehow the picture on Saihara’s one felt more true to life despite being of a lesser quality. Something about the definition of this one made things look too real, unrealistically real. The more differences the better.

Bedtime had felt pretty awkward. Amami had given Ouma a spare toothbrush, luckily he’d had one. They both changed into their sleeping clothes separately, one in the bedroom and one in the bathroom. They both wore loose fabric trousers, Amami matched his grey trousers with an equally grey but form fitting short sleeved top. The material looked thin and soft. Ouma’s thick black trousers did not match the too big long-sleeved blue top he wore. He balled his hands around the loose material at the ends of the sleeves. They had shared the bed, but did not cuddle together. They shared a chaste kiss with whispers of ‘goodnight’, but Amami had turned away from Ouma, giving Ouma the option to also turn away. He did, and so they slept back to back, the warmth of each other’s bodies mingling beneath the sheets.

The whole night was spent in a failed attempt to settle. His restless body wanted to constantly shift and move, he ignored the irritating feeling in favour of not waking the other person in the bed. He could hear Amami’s deep and even breathing, it was both relaxing and stressful. Even when sleep did find him, it was never for long, waking up each time after what seemed to be only minutes. By the time morning came, he felt more exhausted than when he went to sleep. He would get better, he silently told himself, he would get more comfortable and then he would be happy. Why wouldn’t he be?

Amami made them both breakfast while Ouma showered first, he took his school clothes into the bathroom with him so that he could get completely changed. A quick solo survey of the bathroom cabinet revealed a few simple first aid items, finally. He also noticed a couple of different face creams, as much as he wanted to poke fun of the other for owning them, he also figured it was best not to say that he was snooping around. The still tender, raised skin stung as it was dabbed with antiseptic soaked cotton, the continuous pain a bad sign.

The breakfast was simple, a western style meal of fried eggs, bacon and mushrooms. It was already on the table once he was out of the bathroom, Amami already part way through his. He wiped his lips against his sleeve as he approached, the smell making him salivate.

“It looks good,” Ouma praised as he sat, noticing that Amami looked distant, or maybe displeased. He let out a loud huff at Ouma’s words, causing the boy to shrink back a little, afraid that _he_ was the one Amami was displeased with.

“It’s not right at all,” Amami grumbled, cutting through the meat aggressively with his fork.

“W-what,” Ouma struggled with his words, his breath leaving him before he could finish, “what’s not right?” he slowly asked, hands gripping his own knees tightly. Did he do something wrong? He tried not to be a nuisance in the night, he’s tried not to intrude, doing things that Amami suggested as not to mess with his lifestyle. What wasn’t right? Did Amami envision living with Ouma to be different? Is it because they didn’t, they didn’t _do_ anything last night? Did Amami want their relationship to be something more and he was disappointed that he hadn’t made any moves to advance it? His mind raced with possibilities. He’d messed it up. He’d messed everything up.

“It just doesn’t get crispy at all,” Amami sighed, ungracefully shoving a fork of bacon into his mouth and chewing hard.

“Um,” Ouma hesitantly hummed, eyes trained on Amami for any change in behaviour. Intense green eyes slid up from the plate to meet Ouma’s, vacant, before widening, the life returning brightly to them.

“The bacon here is nothing like American bacon,” he declared, his downcast expression uplifting into something livelier, “American bacon is the best, it gets all crispy but I just can’t get the bacon here to do the same thing.” Ouma felt like his heart was going to explode. He almost wanted to cry. All that anxiety over bacon. He couldn’t help but laugh before his brain had caught up, hands releasing his knees and taking the knife and fork set out in front of him. “It’s just totally different,” Amami continued, “I’ll have to keep trying to get hold of some American bacon and show you.” Ouma’s smirk wouldn’t leave his face as he listened to Amami’s educated rant throughout the morning.

 

The walk to school was short, allowing Ouma more time to get ready in the morning than he was used to. It was useful since he had been feeling so sluggish from his poor night’s sleep. His lunch box was already in his bag, he didn’t see Amami make it so he guessed it must have been either while he was making breakfast that morning or while he was making dinner last night. Both times Ouma was out the room while Amami was cooking, because of that he hadn’t had the chance to give the food a look, but he trusted it would be as tasty as always.

Ouma swapped his books between his bag and locker between morning classes. He waited, looking both ways down the hallway, but Amami didn’t come meet him. He guessed it made sense, Amami didn’t have a reason to see him during this short time anymore. He still couldn’t help but feel a little lonely, standing by his locker until the bell rang for classes to start again.

He didn’t see Amami again until after school, waiting at the gates the same as always. Smiles and greetings, quickly followed by stories, familiar. Their hands intertwined, nervousness built, they were still right by the school but if Amami didn’t mind, why should he? Their route home was fast, the building and smooth, shining lobby still intimidating. One day he was sure he would also be able to greet the girl behind the desk, but today was not that day. Back into the flat that didn’t quite feel like home. Once his shoes had been removed, habit drew him towards the bedroom door. He stopped himself just before he reached out to the handle, instead turning away sharply and following Amami to the living room. Their bags were discarded behind the sofa, Amami immediately beginning to undo the jacket of his uniform. Ouma was comfortable enough with his jacket still on.

“What do you want for dinner?” Amami reached for the TV remote as he asked, switching it on and beginning to flip through channels. Ouma paused, the question too broad. What did Amami have? What could he cook? Maybe Ouma should cook so Amami wasn’t always doing it? He had next to no experience cooking, he wouldn’t be able to make anything that Amami would want to eat!

“I don’t mind,” he instead shyly answered, dodging the question entirely.

“Do you want curry?” Amami continued his line of questioning, not looking away from the screen, finally picking something to watch. That was the kind of question Ouma could get behind. He nodded, humming a yes. “It’s only a mix from a packet, but it’s pretty good,” he yawned, getting up from the seat and stretching.

“Sounds good,” Ouma nodded again. He was beginning to feel spoiled with being treated to so much comfort and ease. He would have to help at some point too, cook or clean or something. Once Amami had left to go to the other side of the flat, to the kitchen, Ouma felt a sudden vibration. He fished his phone out from his pocket quickly in surprise, seeing the name he knew he’d see. Did Saihara see Amami get up? Or was it a coincidence? Panic began to rise up in Ouma, how could Saihara see them here? They were up to high to be able to see them clearly, right? He peered out the window nearest him, the lone cactus catching his peripheral vision, but he couldn’t see anyone looking in. He clicked to open the message.

‘So, you’re living together now?’ Ouma read the message, giving it a snippy tone that he felt was right for it. He glanced over to the kitchen, Amami’s back was to him. He looked back down to the phone, a strange swirling feeling running through him.

‘Yes’ the single word response was all that was needed. Saihara didn’t send another message. Ouma expected that he would. He was strangely quiet.

After dinner and a needed homework session, the two boys brushed their teeth and changed for bed. They whispered their goodnights, but their lips met for longer. Neither pulled away quickly, not like their small goodnight peck the night before. Amami pulled away first, kissing him again immediately after. Everything felt warm and soft, safe. Amami’s body hovered over his, an arm pressing into the bed near Ouma’s head. He pulled away after the second kiss, lips turned upwards before retreating to his side of the bed and turning away from Ouma. The smaller boy turned to his other side as well, back to back again. It wasn’t intimate, but he could feel that there was another person sleeping beside him. He found sleeping much easier that night, his lethargy catching up to him.

 

Thursday was very similar to the day before. Another warm breakfast, a couple of sweet pastries each this time. Amami didn’t come to his locker between morning classes again, Ouma considered trying to find Amami but disregarded the thought once he remembered how many people usually crowded around the popular boy. He saw him again after school for the walk home. Saihara still hadn’t sent anything else. Saihara’s unexpected silence made him far more uneasy than most things he could say. Most things. He shouldn’t count anything out.

“What do you do with that room?” Ouma stood in the kitchen with Amami, watching his movements as he cooked. Most of cooking seemed to just be following instruction on the food packets. He could do that if he wanted to. He pointed towards the door that looked to lead to another bedroom on the other side of the bathroom. It was the only room he hadn’t entered at any point. Amami turned to follow his finger.

“It’s just a spare bedroom,” he shrugged off the question and returned to his cooking. “You can go in there if you want.” Ouma took him up on it, curiosity getting the better of him. He slowly opened the door as if Amami’s words had been a lie, but the inside of the room revealed exactly as he should have expected. A bedroom almost identical to Amami’s, other than the bed being slightly smaller, and the open wardrobes showing their barren interiors. Despite having a spare room, Amami had still wanted Ouma to share a room with him. His chest fluttered slightly.

 

After dinner they broke apart into different rooms, Amami headed to the living room to watch a show while Ouma headed into the bedroom to study and finish some schoolwork. He was a little concerned at how little Amami worked in his spare time. He didn’t mention he was doing badly at any of his classes, so that was good at least. He also never mentioned that he was scoring well either. He didn’t really talk that much about his classes or scores, he was always focussed on his friends and social events. It was the kind of thing Ouma didn’t pay much heed to over the course of a day. Despite being by himself in a mostly quiet room, the distant hum of the television in the background, he still found himself distracted. His eyes wondered to his phone. Thoughts of the silent Saihara swept through his mind. Why did he stop talking so suddenly? Did he not care about Ouma now that he had moved in with Amami, even though he had said before that he didn’t mind what Ouma did? Moreover, why did he care if Saihara wasn’t interested in him anymore? That would be great!

That wasn’t the only thing his mind stuck on though. He considered checking the forums, the various Danganronpa fan sites. It felt like it had been a while since he last browsed them. More than that, there was something he wanted to know. Had it just been to scare him? Or could what he had heard really have been true? Did he want to know? Would knowing make any difference? Without checking, he could pretend that it wasn’t true, and that there was nothing to worry about. But what if that wasn’t the case?

Every 10 Danganronpa seasons they brought in a new gimmick for the next 9, Ouma knew the forums would detail each gimmick at the start of new batch. The information about it would often come out early if it would affect auditions too. Usually Ouma didn’t look them up until the end of that series of seasons, instead trying to figure it out for himself. Trying to determine what was the same about each episode of the group for himself was something he enjoyed. For example, seasons 20-29 all included an animal, either as a participant which resulted in some of the most heart wrenching episodes, or as a motive, or a weapon. They tried quite a few different ways of incorporating the animals, but mostly he felt a bit bad for the creatures that had been forced onto the show. They hadn’t wanted to be on Danganronpa, and yet grotesque people put them on the show to die or kill for entertainment. He hadn’t caught on to the quirk of seasons 50-59 yet though. There hadn’t seemed to be many obvious similarities between the seasons, outside of the traits that were always shared between seasons.

What he had heard made no sense though. How could they possibly use that as a gimmick? It couldn’t be true. It was an awful show that did the good of disposing of terrible people, but that gimmick would change things. He carefully lifted his phone from the ground, trembling thumbs attempting to navigate to his most trusted forum. Did he really want to know? He could hear his own breathing, his stinging eyes barely able to focus on the wobbling screen in front of him. His ears rang with the same barks and shouts. There was no way it was the truth.

The webpage finally loaded, the format hadn’t changed since the last time he used it. That was good because it meant the information he was looking for was easy to reach. They always put the rules of any season at the top of the FAQs page as a sticky. His thumb floated above the link, drifting and afraid. Ouma took in a sharp breath and tapped. He scanned through all the usual stuff about the forum itself, about the history of Danganronpa and how to apply to the show. He finally got to a section about what the gimmicks, or _special rules_ , were, and quickly scrolled through what they had been until he saw the header ‘Special rule for seasons 50-59’. With another surge of courage he dragged the page up, wide, terrified eyes taking in the words in front of him.

**About Nominations**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! This upload is a bit later than usual, I was out for longer than I expected tonight! Hopefully tipsy proof-reading has not let me down! 
> 
> Also Hey! What the fuck, hope you feel better soon! Don't comment until you are, okay? Keep that commenting energy and use it to get better first!


	26. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Special rules for seasons 50-59  
> About Nominations

His breath hitched as the header glared up at him through the brightly lit screen in front of his unblinking eyes. His thumb remained frozen, scrolling far enough to see the heading, but no further. Damp, tacky hands clutched the device in front of him as he scanned through the text above the bold letters for context.

**Special rules for seasons 50-59**

His eyes didn’t pick it up the first time, he had been in such a rush to find the words he hadn’t wanted to see. ‘Special rules’, _rules_ , meaning more than one. The short blurb of text between the emboldened headings stated that these seasons were special. Team Danganronpa was celebrating 50 seasons of Danganronpa by bringing back fan favourite special rules, such as the animal companion rule, the ultimate survivor rule, the despair disease rule and more! There had been a leak on a social media site that Team Danganronpa were even looking into new ways of airing the show, suggesting a season in the future could even be livestreamed but it was still in development. The struggle was to allow a 24-hour livestream of the killing game while not giving away any murderers, masterminds or twists early. Ouma was almost brought to laughter over the idea, Saihara would probably never see the light of day again if Danganronpa was on-air 24/7.

Seasons 50-59 would have a rotating special ruleset, possibly even combining rules from previous seasons into one, and had an upcoming new way to watch potentially. With all that going on, they still put into place another special rule to affect casting, a special rule that would be in place for the whole set of seasons regardless of the other rules. _Nominations_. He was glad Amami was in the other room and couldn’t hear his audible, nervous gulp. Couldn’t see his never-ending tremors. His small frame huddled over his knees staring desperately into the screen between his hands. He couldn’t put it off any more, he had to read on. He finally pressed down on the screen with his hovering thumb, and pulled the page up further.  

**About Nominations**

In addition to being able to audition to enter Danganronpa yourself as normal, for seasons 50-59 it will be possible to also/instead enter another person into Danganronpa. In order to nominate an individual for a place in the next season of Danganronpa, an audition form must be filled in as normal. It must contain the nominee’s basic information, and then the nominator may fill in the sections about their ultimate talent, backstory and design for Team Danganronpa’s consideration. This allows the nominator to shape the character of the nominee. Finally, the audition sheet must be signed by the nominator and a legal guardian of the nominee before it can be sent to Team Danganronpa. An individual cannot be nominated if they have already submitted an audition form. Ultimate talents, backstories and designs are subject to change by Team Danganronpa.

 

Heat welled behind Ouma’s stinging eyes, he could almost feel the speed of his blood rushing through his body beneath his skin. It was real. This time people really could submit another person to enter Danganronpa without their permission. They could be selected without their permission. They could be thrown into a killing game without ever having known they were entered for it. He didn’t realise how hard he was breathing until he heard his own shallow, rapid, gasping breaths. The words in front of him blurred together with the backlight into an incomprehensible muddle shining into his tearful eyes. How could they do this? They weren’t just getting rid of awful people anymore, they were now allowing those terrible people to bring others down with them. To make people who might not have been horrible into murderers. It was true. It was really true. It wasn’t part of some fantasy to scare him, it was real. One hand moved away from the phone, leaving it only in the grip of the other. The now free limb moved carefully towards his head, fingers mingling into his mess of hair, pulling against the tangles. His attention never shifted away from the screen. He balled his hand tighter, pulling hard against his scalp. Shouts echoed through his ears. It was all true.

_“You’re useless,” the growl in his ear was nothing compared to vice-like hold the older man had on his dark hair, lifting the short boy to the tips of his toes. He didn’t need the reminder, he already knew that to his parents he was worthless. He didn’t offer them anything, he was only a drain on their resources, albeit a minor one. “Useless!” A gruff bark, his back grinding against the wall behind him, bumpy and sharp from years of wear and abuse._

_“I know,” a meagre whimper escaped his lips, no different from ever. There was never a point to fighting back, to standing up for himself so he may as well go along with them and get it over with faster. His own hands were raised, a difficult to ignore impulse telling him to scratch and pull at the cause of the pain shooting through his body. His hands remained around shoulder level, scratching or resisting would make things worse. So much worse._

_“At least we’d get paid if you went on Danganronpa,” he snarled with a wicked smirk. The expression he made was terrifying. “But you’re too much of a pussy to go on that show, right?” Teasing. He knew something. Something was wrong. Ouma nodded, the action resulting in more pain. His head burned. He should probably head straight to bed after, this headache wasn’t going to go away any time soon. A snicker brought him out of his musing. “You’re going to go on that show, whether you want to or not.” Ouma stared back, stunned by either his stupidity or stubbornness. That wasn’t how Danganronpa worked. Candidates had to willingly enter and audition, everyone knew that. It was the only thing keeping him alive after all._

 

“Ouma?” He tightened his grip of his hair, pulling harder, the familiar burning sensation spreading through the top of his head. More. He balled his fist tighter. _Whether you want to or not._ “Ouma!” the call broke through to his ears, past the deafening hissing and snarls. “What’s wrong?” Warm hands were on him, a pull against his arm. He loosened his fingers so that his hand could be pulled away from his head, only catching on the new knots he had introduced. Another hand was laid against his shoulder. At some point he had let go of his phone, the device now resting against his legs. Everything was still blurry. And hot. His hands rushed to his face, completely wettened with his tears. He frantically wiped at the skin, reddening it, before finally looking up at Amami.

“S-sorry,” he all but sobbed the word at the taller boy, voice on the verge of breaking.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Amami cooed, both hands on Ouma’s shoulders now, gently massaging them. Amami was always warm, it was comforting. “What’s going on?” his smooth voice attempted to draw an answer from him.

“I-I just,” Ouma couldn’t put his feelings into words, instead an embarrassing cry escaping his throat. He covered his face with his hands, he didn’t want Amami to look at him. It wasn’t fair. He felt a change, a weight removed from his lap. When he moved his fingers to see what was going on, he saw Amami’s thick eyelashes raised high, staring into the same screen he had been minutes ago. The pair remained silent. Forest green eyes finally shifted from the phone to Ouma, a softer expression than he had expected. He expected anger. Amami didn’t like Danganronpa, Ouma expected him to yell, question why he was looking at a forum dedicated to the show. Instead he seemed to be receiving compassion. Amami was too kind for his own good.

“You won’t be nominated,” he murmured his empty promise to Ouma in the hopes of calming him. Ouma sniffled, wiping away the last of the tears that he would allow to fall. “I promise,” Amami sounded serious, looking Ouma in the eye, an intense and firm look. Ouma didn’t know how he could say something like that so confidently, as if he meant it, as if he could possibly stick to those words. He clung onto Amami.

 

Friday morning had felt pretty tense. Amami seemed to be going about his day like normal, Ouma didn’t know how he could. After his freak out yesterday he and Amami hadn’t spoken much. Ouma had been feeling so awkward around the other, but Amami acted totally unaffected by it. Amami had kept a hold of Ouma’s phone, it had definitely been best at that time. Ouma probably would have read and re-read that post all night if he hadn’t confiscated it.

“Can I have my phone back?” reminding himself of that, he asked Amami as they were preparing to leave the house for school.

“No.” Ouma froze at the casual answer. What did he mean ‘no’?

“Why?” Ouma questioned after a moment of quiet between them.

“I think it’s better if you don’t have it right now, don’t you?” He smiled back at Ouma, picking up their bags from the floor. He supposed Amami probably had a point.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had forgotten something all day. He knew it was his phone, and he knew that it was back at Amami’s home, their home. That knowledge didn’t stop the pang of panic he instantly felt every time he patted his empty pocket. School really did feel lonelier now that he was living with Amami and not seeing him throughout the day. He knew that he would miss those interactions, but he hadn’t realised how much they broke up his day.

After dinner Ouma tried again, the same question as the morning. He also received the same response.

“What do you even want it back for? I hardly ever see you use it,” again, he had a point. He didn’t exactly reply to Saihara or search Danganronpa stuff around Amami, so of course he wouldn’t see Ouma use his phone often at all.

“I just, I feel weird without it I guess.” It was a weak reason, but reason enough surely?

“I still think it’s best you don’t have it right now,” Ouma let out a sigh, leaning against Amami in defeat. He wanted what was best for Ouma, it was nice to have someone care enough to do that he supposed.

 

When Ouma woke up on Saturday morning, it began to really sink in that he wasn’t at home any more. When he woke up, Amami was already up. He could smell rice cooking so he must have been making breakfast already. Ouma was still getting used to the smell of warm food in a house. Even just the sensation of leaving the bedroom optionally on a Saturday was slightly odd.

“Good morning,” Amami beamed at him, he seemed to be making a traditional breakfast of steamed white rice and fish. It was certainly nice to be doted on like that, Amami seemed to handle all the household tasks and never asked or expected Ouma to do anything. He guessed that Amami was just used to living alone and so didn’t think to ask for his help. He slinked off to the bathroom to get showered and changed before breakfast was ready since Amami was already washed and dressed too.

“What do you normally do at the weekend?” Ouma carefully asked after breakfast once their plates were in the dishwasher.

“Not a lot honestly,” Amami shrugged, “usually just stay home, might go out and meet with some friends from school if they’re all meeting up and doing something, but they aren’t this weekend.”

The answer was surprising to Ouma. Amami was so social at school that he assumed he would also spend his whole weekend surrounded by people too. Even popular people needed some time alone he supposed. Was he getting in the way of Amami’s relaxing alone time? As if picking up on his paranoia, Amami sent him a bright grin.

“I have a few episodes of a good-looking series recorded, do you want to watch it with me?” he started walking towards the living room sofa as he continued, Ouma hesitantly following along behind him. “It’s all about pack hunting animals, I saw a clip on a section about African wild dogs that looked really cool.” Ouma smiled to himself as Amami explained, a small flutter in his chest and a growing excitement to watch the show the other was so excited for.

 

Amami had said before that he loved watching nature documentaries, and that he really enjoyed the landscapes but Ouma could see that he loved watching about the animals just as much. He was absorbed while watching, but not to the dribbling, heated extent that Saihara got to while watching Danganronpa. Amami just sat back, relaxed and watched with interest bubbling in his face, small twitches and smiles as various events flashed in front of them. The show was interesting to Ouma as well. He had never been particularly interested in animals really, he didn’t have a reason to be interested, but seeing the huge, impressive cats prowling, or a group of animals cleverly trap their prey was fascinating. He leaned against Amami while they watched, a warm arm wrapped around him as if by instinct. They continued to watch the episodes they had recorded like that.

Eventually the show had to end, only 3 episodes had aired so far so they caught up quickly. Ouma noticed that Amami didn’t move the hand that was around his narrow frame. He glanced up at the taller boy, nervously awaiting what kind of face Amami would be making at their situation. He didn’t get a chance to see Amami’s expression before their lips were pressed together, the surprise causing him to jerk back against the arm of the sofa, but not out of the kiss. He quickly snapped his eyes shut in a near panic, he knew he shouldn’t keep them open. Amami’s arm around him tightened, pulling him in closer.

The warmth against his lips moved away, Ouma blinked his eyes open, seeing Amami’s smile again. He had seen lots of smiles this morning, he wasn’t used to being around someone so brilliantly happy. Ouma smiled in return, the corners of his mouth pulling up higher as Amami’s lips met with his again. He let his arms drape around the back of the other’s neck, Amami repositioning his hands to sit against Ouma’s sides. His hands didn’t move around or feel, they just held him. Several small kisses turned into longer, open mouthed kisses. Ouma was almost relieved when Amami finally moved his tongue into the kiss, he had started feeling like he had been doing something wrong. Kissing Amami like this felt different to when he kissed Saihara. Saihara was always greedy, his tongue probing at every ridge in Ouma’s mouth, and Saihara’s mouth was always so wet, heavy breaths huffing against his face. Amami, on the other hand, moved slowly, his tongue thicker and less slimy feeling. Instead of panting against him it felt like their breaths were shared, inhaling and exhaling against each other. Their tongues twisted together, stroking one another and taking in the feeling.

His tongue pulled back into his own mouth, their meeting had been brief but left Ouma wanting more. Their mouths parted again, each catching their breaths, waves of heat brushing over their skin. Amami’s face was slightly flushed, a pink blush spread across his cheeks and nose in a shape resembling a butterfly’s wings. Ouma wondered if anybody else had seen him like that. It was very pleasant. Ouma expected Amami to continue, but instead he pulled completely back onto his own seat again, a content expression as he reached to change the channel. Ouma stared up at him, confusion evident on his face. Emerald eyes flicked to him, taking in that confusion, a bashful grin breaking onto his face.

“That was good, I, uh, I don’t want to push it too far though, right?” It was strange to hear him so unsure sounding, but at the same time the words warmed through Ouma. He nodded vigorously, leaning against Amami’s side again as he opened up the channel list. “Do you like comedies?”

“Um,” the question sort of threw Ouma, he didn’t watch much comedy stuff at all, but he didn’t think it was because he didn’t like them. They just didn’t really come up in his everyday life. “I don’t watch much,” his voice trailed off into nothingness, barely finishing his sentence.

“Do you want to watch one now? I heard this movie is really funny,” he changed the question, selecting the movie in question on the TV. That question was much easier to answer.

“Yeah,” he nodded against Amami’s arm, settling himself in comfortably.

 

The movie had been really funny, it was enjoyable to watch something so mindless. There wasn’t a deep plot, or anything to look out for, or any hidden lore, it was just as it appeared. The story was simple, but each event on the way had been so amusing! Ouma had been embarrassed at first that his laughs kept getting caught against his lips, but soon he was laughing so frequently that he became comfortable doing it. He couldn’t remember a time that he had laughed so much that his eyes watered and his cheeks ached. Amami had been laughing right along with him. Amami’s laughs varied a lot, from full belly laughs to hissing sniggers. Ouma decided that he liked comedies.

They spent the rest of that day close, cuddling and touching, occasional kisses. Amami had really meant what he said. Ouma liked that he didn’t seem to expect anything more, like he was just happy being near him. Ouma felt truly wanted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	27. Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being around Amami was relaxing, kind of. If he didn’t have other things worrying him, he was sure it would be completely relaxing. Of course, there were plenty of things he couldn’t get out of his mind.

****

Sunday was also slow and relaxed like Saturday had been. Another traditional breakfast since Amami had to use up what he had started the previous morning. They had slept back to back as normal that night, despite their more intimate kissing during the day. Being around Amami was relaxing, kind of. If he didn’t have other things worrying him, he was sure it would be completely relaxing. Of course, there were plenty of things he couldn’t get out of his mind.

His parents, that was a big one. Were they worried? He hadn’t heard anything about his disappearance, or a missing kid that looked like him so they probably hadn’t gone to the police or anything, not that he had expected them to. They seemed to be behaving exactly like he’d thought they would, as disappointing as it was. He had made his choice, no going back now.

Then there was Saihara. Always a constant source of anxiety for Ouma. Their last conversation had felt off. Cut short. As he was thinking that he hadn’t heard from Saihara since that weird conversation, he realised with a flash of panic that there was no way he could get any messages from Saihara at the moment. Amami had his phone. Deep breaths, he tried to calm himself. Amami would tell him if he had a new message on his phone, he was sure. The other boy had no reason to keep that information to himself. He had no security on his phone. Anyone could just swipe the screen and have access to all those messages they had sent to each other. Amami would have no reason to try to unlock it though, right? Why would he? He wanted his phone back.

“Um,” he hesitatingly vocalised, catching Amami on the way to the living room after he’d had his shower and dressed. Amami turned to him, open, round eyes staring down at him. Ouma felt his gaze, twisting his fingers together and fidgeting under it. “Can I have my phone back yet?” Amami’s expression turned softer, sympathetic almost.

“That’s not a good idea,” his voice was low and gentle, “you might see something upsetting again on it. I think it’s good to spend a few days without it anyway,” his lips curved upwards easily into a caring smile, “how about we go for a walk today? There’s a park with ducks, it’s a bit of a walk away but we can feed them! Do you want to go there?” With such a happy smile thinking about it, how could Ouma refuse?

 

The walk to the park was longer than Ouma had realised, he had to imagine there was a train or bus that would get them there faster. Thankfully Amami didn’t walk too quickly, not that their held hands would let him get too far ahead. They had stopped on the way to the park at a supermarket and picked up a couple of cans of sweetcorn for the ducks. Ouma had immediately gravitated towards bread, he had heard plenty of people talk about feeding ducks bread before, but apparently bread is not the best thing to give them. Amami had explained to him that bread isn’t nutritious to ducks, it’s kind of like junk food and lots of other people give ducks bread so they shouldn’t. Also, any uneaten bread given to the ducks would go mouldy quickly and cause them more problems. He insisted that ducks like sweetcorn just as much, so they picked up a can each, Amami paying for both, and continued on their way.

The park was refreshing once they got there though. The trees and greenery, along with the lake and sounds of wildlife were a nice break from the grey, built up city. With it being a Sunday, there were quite a few families there as well, having picnics or playing sports with balls or frisbees. The atmosphere was warm. He felt a tug on his hand, flicking his eyes to Amami he saw the taller boy, bright and excited, pointing towards the lake. Ouma moved his feet in that direction quickly, not wanting to hold Amami up. They seemed to get lucky, there was no one else feeding them at that point, maybe that was why Amami was wanting to get over here first? The ducks mostly kept together in a big huddle near the centre of the lake. Their feathers were so slick and flat to their bodies that it looked like patterned skin until it got to their wings and tails, which flared out into more recognisable feather shapes. Some were mostly brown and white, with decorations of black markings. Others had regal greens around their heads, reflecting brilliantly in the sunlight.

Next to him, he heard Amami open a can, so Ouma hastily followed suit, pulling the tab and opening his own. The yellow corns in the tin were wet and cold, he knew they would still taste okay, but they looked quite unappetising in that state. He supposed the ducks wouldn’t mind so much. They’re probably used to everything being wet. He glanced sideways, having noticed no movement from the other. He met Amami’s own expectant eyes looking back at him.

“You go first,” he explained, focused on watching Ouma.

“Sure,” he whispered back, turning to his can. He fished out a kernel, wetting his fingertips, before Amami spoke, stopping him.

“Throw in more than that, take a few of them,” he urged, patient. Ouma nodded, digging the tops of his fingers into the can and taking out a small scoop of them. It didn’t feel particularly pleasant in his hand, the water gathering between his fingers and dripping back down into the tin. He looked back at Amami, unsure, but upon receiving a nod, he flung the food into the water, roughly midway between where they were standing and the where the ducks were in the water. Once the corn touched the water, the ducks sprung into motion, swimming quickly towards it. Their tails wiggled side to side as they moved. Even the ones that were further away from the main group began to travel over. Quacks rang out from the birds, as if excited. Ouma watched with wide, starry eyes as the ducks swam over and began to eat, dipping their beaks down over the corn frantically, heads moving like motors. Amami threw a handful into the lake next, the group of ducks spreading out over the widened area of food, loud noises continuing to emanate from them, alongside their splashy eating sounds. It was almost a shame that the cans had to come to an end after throwing in several more handfuls, but once they threw away the tins, they returned to watch the ducks finish eating.

Once almost all of the ducks had backed off, raising their narrow heads and shaking them in the air, the pair decided to explore some more of the park. Well, it was only exploration for Ouma really, Amami already knew the park pretty well. It felt like they wandered all day, Amami pointing out and reeling off facts about different kinds of trees and flowers, he seemed to remember all sorts from those documentaries he watched. Ouma couldn’t remember much from what he had watched, even though he had enjoyed it at the time only the images had cemented themselves in his mind. It was nice to spend most of the day in the shade of the trees as well, it had been getting warmer and Ouma wasn’t used to the midday sun, his paper white complexion gave that away. He wondered if Amami had thought about that, and thus had chosen to keep them in the more tree rich area of the park for most of the day.

Once they finally got back home, Ouma felt exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he had walked nearly so far. He was hungry too. It was strange, he knew he wasn’t _really_ hungry, he’d had breakfast that morning, yet his stomach still hurt and grumbled just because he hadn’t had lunch. Amami went ahead and started dinner once they got in, much to Ouma’s silent delight.

 

The week days began to merge into one another, the new routine becoming comfortable. Waking up in a warm bed, having breakfast made for him, having a lunch prepared for him, it was great. The days were a little lonely, especially without his phone. He still didn’t see Amami during the days, and he had given up trying to get his phone back for now. He didn’t want to keep pestering Amami about it and drawing attention to the fact that he might have something on there he didn’t want the other boy to see. They would get home, have dinner together and usually do their schoolwork separately. Amami would finish studying first and start watching something while Ouma would spend longer, joining Amami just before bedtime.

They would hold hands, share quick pecks most often, but occasionally the kissing would get heavier again. It would never get far though, Amami would always pull away. Amami would smile, maybe even apologise, and completely back off. He must have liked kissing though, since he would always start it. It was a bit confusing.

 

The following Saturday morning was different. Usually Ouma would wake up, and Amami would already be up preparing a breakfast for them, but this time as Ouma groggily blinked his eyes open, he noticed the bed was warmer than normal. There was still a weight behind him, dipping the bed slightly. His petite body shuffled against the covers, head nuzzling against the pillow, letting his eyes drop back closed. He figured it must have been earlier than he thought, but then he felt the figure behind him shuffle closer. Ouma stilled, eyes closed, trying to work out if Amami really was closer to him now, or if he had imagined it. He felt a hand carefully lower onto his side, as if seeking permission. When he didn’t move, the hand settled more against the curve of his ribs through his sleeping top. Amami’s body scooted closer again, until Ouma could feel Amami’s breath against his hair. He shifted his own body backward slightly, slotting himself more comfortably against the other boy’s form. He could feel the heat of Amami’s torso against his back, his knees touching against the backs of Ouma’s thighs. The hand that was resting against his side began to move, rubbing the side of his body through his clothing. No words were shared between them.

After a short while, Amami’s hand hovered around the bottom edge of his top, fiddling with the material restlessly. Ouma enjoyed feeling the rise and fall of Amami’s breathing against his body. The hand finally slipped underneath the top, touching skin. His fingers left light touches against his body, sliding against his side again, tracing the lines of his ribs to his chest. The touching felt unusual, since Amami would never progress this far, he hadn’t been expecting it but it was still enjoyable. He let his own body settle slightly further back, placing himself flush against Amami’s body. He felt a movement beneath him, startling for a moment until he realised it was Amami’s other hand, presumably uncomfortable wherever he had positioned it prior. The arm rose back up on the other side of him, wrapping upwards against his clothed upper chest, keeping their bodies close. Ouma felt Amami’s hip grind upwards against him in reaction to his own movement, his breath catching as he realised the other was hard. Amami’s head moved from above Ouma’s, lips touching the back of his neck. A shiver ran through him on contact. He could feel his body heating up, it all felt so intimate and good. He felt a tug on the arm of his top, letting it hang loosely off his shoulder, small kisses dusted down the curve of his neck, before abruptly stopping.

After a pause, Ouma shifted, trying to work out why the other had stopped. Amami pulled back his hands, immediately touching what had stopped him. The bite. Ouma froze as soon as he felt Amami’s finger against the stiff, dry scab. Well, it was dry in the centre, where the scab had formed, the outer edge of the wound was still prone to sticky wetness. He guessed it was from moving around and detaching the edge of the scab from the healthy skin during the day and night. The curious finger then traced against the red skin around the site of the injury. They were quiet for a while, before Ouma finally turned onto his back to look up at Amami, afraid of how he would react, what he would ask.

 

“It looks,” Amami began, hesitating, seeming unsure what to say next. “Painful.” Ouma was surprised, the first question was ‘how did that happen?’ but rather that it looked like it hurt.

“It doesn’t really hurt much anymore,” it only stung when he put antiseptic on it, he hadn’t put a new gauze on it since he didn’t want to start taking too much of Amami’s first aid supplies and have it noticed.

“Have you seen a doctor?” Ouma shook his head, his hair knotting against the pillow beneath him. “You should, it looks like it’s infected, and might have been for a while,” Amami’s expression was confusing, serious and maybe sad? “I thought you felt kind of hot sometimes, it’s probably that.” Ah, that made sense. All the times he tried to blame his fevers and shivers on a mysterious illness while remarking that the wounds were taking a long time to heal. It made sense. He was afraid of them getting infected, tried to do everything he could to keep them clean but it must have not been enough. He knew both of the injuries were serious, but there was no way he could see a doctor about them.

“It’s fine,” he meekly refused, sitting up on the bed, Amami backing off and doing the same.

“What’s the harm of seeing a doctor?” His head tilted as he asked, a frustratingly cute looking habit he had. Ouma silently shook his head again. “Please?” Amami urged, desperate. Ouma hesitated.

“N-no, I can’t,” he whispered back, eyes fixed down at the bedsheets pooled in his lap. Amami seemed to think for a moment, his knees pulling up and elbows resting against them, a hand to his chin in thought.

“Oh!” Suddenly he made a sound of revelation, shifting to lay his legs back down flat. “I get it, you don’t want to see a doctor because you don’t want to tell them about your parents hurting you, right?” Ouma’s focus snapped to Amami’s face, full of light and confidence about his bluntly put conclusion. It gave him an out.

“Y-yeah,” he clumsily stuttered, wiping the cold sweat from his palms onto the bed beside him.

“Well I have a private doctor, he’ll treat you and respect that you want to keep the cause of the injury private, confidentiality and stuff,” his eyes were open wide, certain in his solution. “I’ll make an appointment for you to see him!” He decided, hopping off the bed and out of the room before Ouma could stop him, leaving him to his thoughts.

 

His own hand ghosted against the injury. Would it really be okay to see a doctor without explaining? He would have to say, right? Say that it was a bite. A human bite. The doctor probably wouldn’t be able to treat it without knowing. He should get the cut on his thigh looked into as well, both probably needed treatment. How embarrassing, to have to show him a cut in a position like that. Maybe not. They would both probably just be treated with antibiotics anyway, so he only needed to show one. If the doctor really would keep it secret and he could see the doctor without Amami having to be there, he guessed he could say that it was a human bite and nothing more. Let the doctor believe he was attacked by a vampire or something. That would be a great thing to claim if he was questioned. He felt his lips crack as the corners tugged upwards at his own amusing thoughts. If only he could be confident enough to act on something like that.

He wished that could siphon more of Amami’s overflowing confidence. It felt like it was going well for a while, like he was changing a little, but now he felt more relaxed and didn’t really have anything to rebel against. There were other reasons that confidence would be nice to have though. Like being able to be funny, making jokes and sharing stupid thoughts with those around him, like how he had joked with Amami before about the cactus. Speaking up in groups at all would be nice, instead of being rendered a nervous, stuttering wreck. It was easier to avoid people than it was to interact with them, so he wondered what it was like to be the opposite. To be someone who was happier around people than alone. It looked fun, if nothing else.

Ouma finally left the bedroom himself, readjusting his sleeping top to cover the unsightly wound. Amami was just hanging his phone up when he spun and spotted Ouma leaving the room.

“I’ve booked your appointment,” he called out, his voice spritely. Ouma nodded, a grateful smile on his face. It probably was for the best. Amami was good for him. Amami was always looking out for his health, be it with this doctor’s appointment or with food or whatever, it was his concerns for Ouma’s health that first drove them to talking anyway. His concerns over Ouma missing morning lessons. He walked over to where Amami was standing, looking up into his jewel coloured yet soft features and leaned up onto the tips of his toes, the other leaning down to meet him for a sweet and equally as soft kiss.

Amami was really good for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	28. Fixing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He relaxed at the idea of it being taken care of for him. He was still anxious though, what would he say? It wasn't really that bad, right? They should just leave instead.

The rest of Saturday and the following Sunday were spent in relaxing peace. The doctor’s appointment wasn’t until Monday after school. The doctor’s surgery wasn’t too far from the school, but it was in the opposite direction to Amami’s home, though it wouldn’t be the biggest detour. It would be less of a trip than when Amami was going to Ouma’s house from school, then to his own place after. There were no further attempts of intimacy, Amami was probably worried about his injuries and agitating them. Putting Ouma’s health and wellbeing above his own want for more, the thought was a pleasant one. Saihara had been very forward very quickly, so this change of pace was welcomed.

“So, for next week,” Amami sleepily murmured once they were both in bed on Sunday night. “We have the doctor’s on Monday, then I was thinking we could go shopping for some house stuff on Tuesday, as long as you’re feeling up to it, and I’ve arranged to meet up with Kaede on Saturday, you can come along then too,” he calmly organised for the week ahead.

Ouma pondered a couple of those. Shopping for ‘house stuff’? What did that mean? He guessed he meant food shopping and things like that, so that was fine, he wouldn’t mind wondering around the supermarket with Amami, maybe he’d even get to pick some things. He wouldn’t mind if he didn’t get to pick though, Amami pays for everything and does all the cooking so it would be fair if he picked everything. He did wonder why he was meeting with Akamatsu though, they were related so it was good for them to socialise but he was under the impression that she didn’t get along well with Amami. Plus, him going along sounded pretty awkward.

“Why are you meeting Akamatsu-san?” he quietly questioned, hoping that it didn’t sound too blunt or accusatory. As soon as the words left him, he regretted how he’d phrased the question.

“Well,” Amami didn’t seem phased, “our parents originally arranged for me to handle all the money they were sending us since we were supposed to live in the same apartment. I’m a bit older and used to keeping everything in the house paid while Dad was away on business trips.” Ouma nodded, body turned towards Amami, who kept his face upwards while he spoke. “When Kaede wanted her own place, our parents accommodated and arranged for some of the money to be sent to her instead to pay for it, but a few payments meant for both of us have still gone into my account so I need to see her to give her it.” Ouma understood, the situation made sense. It still really sounded like something he shouldn’t be involved in.

 

“I sh-shouldn’t go,” he breathed, one hand tightening around the pillow under his head. Amami’s eyes turned to him, a look of curiosity barely illuminated by the bedside lamp.

“Why not?” he asked, shifting his own body sideways to face Ouma.

“It, it sounds kind of, um, personal? Like family only,” his eyes drifted, not wanting to look at the other for too long, guilt building at the action of turning down the meeting. Still, Amami smiled.

“You should come, she’ll probably bring her friend too.” Ouma’s brain almost screamed, _Saihara_. He was Akamatsu’s friend. He definitely couldn’t go, both him, Amami and Saihara in the same place made his stomach flip, nausea taking over. He opened his mouth to speak, lips parted but no noises leaving his throat. He needed to calm down, he wondered if Amami could feel his heart pulsing rapidly.

“Friend?” he managed to squeak out at last, fingertips numb with how tightly he had been squeezing the pillow. Amami’s flawless smile stayed in place.

“Yeah, I told you about her pen pal before, right?” Ouma weakly nodded, slightly lightheaded from his panic. “She said that they were meeting on Saturday too, so they’ll probably both be there.” He had said before that the pen pal was a girl, a sweet girl at that, so it wasn’t Saihara. His breathing eased, his burning chest lessening.

“O-oh, her? Okay, m-maybe I won’t be so out of place,” his words still wobbled as they left him, Amami simply nodding, seemingly completely unaware of the near meltdown happening in front of him. That was good.

“Great,” he looked pleased, maybe it would be tense for Amami if he went by himself? Amami leaned in, Ouma leaned up in the same way, a quick peck on the lips, then Amami turned away again. “Goodnight,” he warmly whispered, Ouma shuffling under the covers to turn himself away as well.

“Goodnight,” he mumbled back, letting his heavy eyelids drop closed.  

 

Monday was the same as always, fitting in with their new routine until school had ended. Amami was still waiting at the gates, but this time instead of heading home, they walked a different way led by Amami, ending up at the automatic doors of the doctor’s surgery. They parted with an accompanying mechanical whirring sound, leading them to the pristine tiled reception area. Amami let go of Ouma’s hand next to the cream coloured sofas, and headed over to the reception to announce their arrival. Ouma took a seat, slightly more relaxed at the idea of it being taken care of for him. He was still anxious about the appointment itself though, what he would say to the doctor, how he would respond to certain questions. His injuries weren’t really that bad, right? He didn’t really need to see a doctor, he was sure they would get better on their own so they should just leave.

“Shouldn’t be long,” Amami sighed as he sat himself next to Ouma, their legs almost touching. “Doctors always run late anyway,” he joked with a grin, maybe an attempt to calm him? He just gave an unsure nod, he wasn’t used to doctors. A silence passed between them, the lack of noise around them made it more noticeable. There were other people, lots wearing masks over their mouths, but few were talking. The light background noises of phones being tapped were the main source of any sound at all. “Do you want me to come in with you?” His voice was lowered and hushed, surprising Ouma initially. He bit the inside of his lip in thought, fingers curling around the edge of the sofa.

“No,” he decided, shaking his head. Amami just nodded, thankfully he didn’t pursue for further information. Ouma wasn’t sure what he would have said if he had done. He didn’t want Amami to know the wound on his shoulder was a human bite. He might ask questions about it, questions that Ouma didn’t want to answer.  

The quiet that followed felt tense, Ouma put it down to his own nerves. He was pretty sure Amami wasn’t annoyed that he didn’t want him in the room. Glancing over to him, he looked peaceful, hands on his knees, head tilted away taking in every detail of the room. Ouma did the same, hoping that his breathing wasn’t actually as loud as it seemed to him. He wished he had his phone with him, he wasn’t sure what he would even use it for with Amami right next to him, but it would be nice to have something to stare at. A nagging, curious part of him wanted to know where the current season of Danganronpa was, which chapter they were on now. It didn’t matter to him, but for some reason it still popped into his head, an annoying little burning curiosity. The season had to be coming to an end by now, or maybe it had already ended. He kind of wondered how it would end, but it was natural to wonder about the ending since he saw the start, right? He tried to smother the thoughts of that show by reading the bold headlines on the magazines sitting in a rack. He could just go and get one, but he didn’t feel right touching anything in a doctor’s surgery. If a contagious person had been reading it last, he didn’t want to catch anything. He’d feel bad, either go to school sick and pass it around or have to miss school entirely and fall behind. He’d probably not only be a burden to Amami, since he would likely take it upon himself to help Ouma, but he would also give it to Amami as well and make it way harder for him too.

 

“Kokichi Ouma,” the call of his name broke him out of his incessant thoughts, head sharply snapping in the direction of the voice.

He stood up quickly, giving a hasty glance to Amami, who gave him an encouraging look in return, and quickly headed over to the doctor, following him into another room. He noted that all the doors were automatic, opened via dark green buttons on the walls beside them. He guessed it was a hygiene thing, it would be bad if the doctors got sick all the time. He sat down once the doctor gestured that he could, heart racing, blood pooling behind the skin of his cheeks.

“What can I do for you today?” the doctor clad in white asked, clicking his mouse a few times before turning to face him. Ouma was stunned for a moment. To make the appointment a reason has to be given, surely the doctor should already know why he’s there? His tongue flicked against his lips as he tried to find his words.

“I-I have an injury, it, it might be infected,” he shakily explained, fighting against his dying voice.

“Okay, can you show me the injury?” the doctor seemed to be acting in a very approachable manner, but purely because of the situation Ouma still found himself wracked with nerves.

With trembling hands, he undid the clasps of his school jacket, shrugging it from his shoulders onto the back of the chair he was sat on. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt until he could pull the garment to the side enough for the doctor to see the slightly sticky, scabbed mess. He appeared unphased, leaning in closer to the injury, assessing it. With a gloved hand, he pressed the tips of his fingers against the reddened edge of the injury site, observing the raised flesh and colour change from white back to red at the pressure being applied and released.

“Yes, that does look like it’s infected, the skin here is still swollen and red,” he pointed towards the tender skin around the edge of the injury, “and these red streaks are signs of infection,” a gloved finger gestured to one of the streaks in question, a thick line of red skin leading away from the injury. “Have you had any fever or sickness or anything like that?” Ouma nodded quickly, things falling into place.

“I’ve had on and off fevers,” he spoke up more easily with a validated fervour, “a-and I’ve been getting kind of nauseous and dizzy when it happens too, I just thought I was ill but it, it didn’t stop,” he explained, voice wavering towards the end as he realised he might have been rambling. The doctor stayed silent as he spoke, giving short nods in understanding.

“I’m going to prescribe an oral antibiotic, it should clear up the infection but if it gets any worse, or it doesn’t get better after the whole course, then make sure you come back,” he instructed, turning to his computer, typing and clicking to create the prescription. “Do you know how to properly care for an injury like that? You’ll need to keep it clean and covered while you’re taking the antibiotics, especially since that area will rub against your clothes.”

“Y-yes, I do know,” Ouma shakily nodded, feeling dumb for answering that he did know how to even though it ended up infected anyway.

The printer was almost startlingly loud in comparison to the quietness that filled the building. Ouma rebuttoned his shirt and pulled his jacket back on, glad that it was over so quickly. He didn’t even have to elaborate on what the wound was from. He was sort of glad it was so obviously infected. The doctor just needed to look at it to decide a treatment. He took the thin paper the prescription was printed on, thanked the doctor, and headed back into the reception area. Amami stood as soon as Ouma came into sight.

“How did it go?” he asked, his voice still low in the almost silent room. In response Ouma just waved the prescription in his direction. “Ah, you get that over here,” he took Ouma’s hand and led him out of the doctor’s surgery. “The pharmacy is just down the street here.”

 

It felt normal for Amami’s hand to be around his own. He’d taken his hand so naturally that he guessed the feeling must be the same for the other too. The pharmacy wasn’t far away from the doctor’s, though it seemed kind of strange that they weren’t the same building. He guessed it made sense since the pharmacies sell things as well as completing prescriptions, but he still thought there should be somewhere inside the doctor’s surgery to get prescribed medicines from.

“What did you get prescribed?” Amami asked, seemingly glad to be able to speak at a normal volume again. Ouma turned the paper in his hand so that he could read the drug name.

“Amoxi, Amoxicillin,” he sounded the word out, it sounded familiar once he had said it aloud. A common antibiotic.

“Ah, okay,” Amami also seemed to recognise the name, “so it is infected then?”

“Yeah,” Amami went quiet, Ouma guessed he wasn’t sure what to say about it. He was just glad that he wasn’t pressing for an explanation of how he got it. Ouma was glad that the treatment wasn’t something that would only locally treat the wound, taking the capsules would probably mean that both of his injuries would heal. “W-we should probably get more antiseptic and gauzes and that kind of stuff,” Ouma spoke again first, he was hesitant about asking for things since he knew that Amami would have to be the one to actually buy them.

“Of course!” he cheerily agreed, perhaps he could tell that Ouma was uncomfortable about asking and so responded so happily. It felt out of place with the conversation they were having.

They arrived at the pharmacy and, still led by Amami, made their way straight to the till. Ouma signed the back of the prescription when asked to by the staff, and Amami paid. While they were waiting for it to be ready, they wondered around the first aid section, picking out pieces. Amami let Ouma pick whatever he needed, insisting that he was the expert. Once those were also paid for by Amami, the prescription was ready and they could head back home. Ouma had to admit he was a bit more tired than normal, doing anything outside of the routine he was getting used to was sort of exhausting. They should probably mix up what they do a bit more.

 

He had to take a capsule 3 times a day for 7 days, it seemed like a lot but it would be simple to keep on top of. One with breakfast, one with lunch and one with dinner, easy. Now that he actually had 3 meals a day, it was easy to time the taking of the medicine. He really liked Amami’s cooking too, his meals were mostly fairly simple but he still made a variety of things. The mix of Japanese food and western food made meal times a bit more interesting, though Amami always insisted that most of the western food he made didn’t quite taste right. Like the bacon before, there was often something about the ingredients he could get a hold of that were different from what was available in other countries. Ouma didn’t have that point of reference, so all he knew was that it was tasty.

He began taking the amoxicillin on Tuesday morning, wanting to take the first one in the morning and start the course fresh. It also felt better to be able to freely use the first aid materials available without worrying about Amami noticing. He cleaned and placed gauzes on both of his injuries while he got himself showered and ready for school in the bathroom. It was nice to not feel the rough fabric of his shirt against the dry scab, and not have the material stick to the edges of the wounds and get torn away by his movements over the course of the day.

Tuesday went on like normal, it was only after lunchtime that Ouma remembered that they were doing something afterschool today as well. They planned to go shopping for ‘house stuff’. He still wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, it was an odd way to phrase food shopping but the house didn’t need anything else, did it? He had never run a house, so maybe there was something that he didn’t know about that the house really did need. He spent the last few classes of the day pondering what they could be shopping for that evening.

He met Amami at the school gates, he took Ouma’s hand as always and started walking towards the train station.

“Is the shop far away?” Ouma questioned, surprised that they would need to take the train. It probably wasn’t food shopping then.

“You remembered,” a smile crept across Amami’s face, his hand squeezing the smaller one in his grasp, “it’s only a couple of stops away, not far.”

“What, ah, what are we shopping for?” Ouma felt bad for asking, Amami looked happy that he’d remembered that they were shopping but he really didn’t understand what they were looking for. “Um, I know you said house stuff, but,” he quickly spoke up to defend himself and clarify what he meant exactly.

“House stuff!” Amami exclaimed, not helping Ouma in the slightest. His grin grew, eyes closed, teeth on display, an expression of amusement at his confusion. “You said before that it’s really empty at home right? I thought we should get some things to make it better.” Ouma was taken aback temporarily. That’s what they were out for? Just because Ouma made a comment once about how empty his house was? He was a little flattered that Amami cared about a comment like that, but guilt also crept up in his chest at the thought of making Amami spend more money on something that didn’t really matter. Sure, it bothered him a bit that there was so little in the house but not because he wanted it to be full of stuff, but because he’d wanted to learn what kind of things Amami liked by what he decorated his house with.

“A-ah, y-you don’t have to,” Ouma’s weak objection was met with a shake of the other’s head.

“It’ll be fun! We can both pick a thing or two that we like and make the flat feel more,” he paused, pulling Ouma slightly closer to him while they waited for the train to arrive at the station. “Like home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
> 


	29. Peak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the week progressed his sense of relief wasn't the only thing that grew. His worry towards their scheduled meeting on Saturday also built.

The two stops on the train whizzed by, Ouma’s imagination filling with ideas of what this shop could look like, his ears occupied with Amami’s usual stories of school. With the chime of the station, Amami pulled his hand and led him through the rush hour crowd of commuters and out of the station. The store wasn’t far from the station, just around a corner, the walk from the station to the store only being a few minutes. Amami explained that it being close to the station made it easier for people who bought big things to take it back home via public transport. Apparently, people bought big things from this place a lot.

The huge building was incredibly eye catching, and not just because of its size. The building was painted an outlandish blue, the name standing out in bright yellow lettering, the whole appearance of the store was very cartoonish. Ouma was shocked that such a fun looking building sold ‘home stuff’, which comparatively sounded much too boring. They entered the tall and immensely colourful building via large automatic doors, the smell of leather and plastic and people hitting their noses immediately upon walking inside. Amami didn’t seem to be affected, still leading Ouma forwards, head darting in every direction, taking it all in. They followed what looked to be a laminated wood path, each side of the path gave way to a flurry of areas decorated to look like various rooms. It was almost overwhelming, the furniture, the mass of people, rooms that shouldn’t be next to each other.

“They have more individual stuff further up,” Amami turned to inform him, pointing ahead of them. “We’re not really looking for a whole room, just a few pieces,” he turned back to face the way they were walking. It sounded more like he was affirming to himself that they shouldn’t be buying roomfuls of stuff. It’s not like they could get that much stuff back on the train anyway.

 

The mountains of ‘individual stuff’ was almost just as intimidating as the pretend rooms. Walls lined with various types of cupboards and stoves as far as he could see. The pace Amami led at slowed to a stroll, letting them both stare at the objects around them. Ouma still wasn’t really sure what they were looking for, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t appliances. Everything in Amami’s house worked perfectly fine, it was decorations that were lacking. He guessed the best way around the store was just to wander until something caught their eye.

An area of seating piled with cushions was where they first stopped with interest, their hands parting. Amami started handling the cushions first, Ouma watching, ensuring that freely touching them was acceptable, before following suit.

“This is cool,” Amami exclaimed, pulling out a green cushion adorned with the face of a tree frog in the centre. Ouma had to stifle his laughter at the ridiculous thing the other held out while wearing a pleased grin. Ouma ran his hand along the front of the printed cushion, quickly drawing back.

“Rough,” he blankly commented, Amami reaching to brush the front of it the same way.

“I guess it wouldn’t be so comfortable, shame,” he agreed, putting it back amongst the others. Their digging continued. Ouma’s hand ghosted against a softness that he had to find. He pulled from the pile the source of the texture he’d felt. A completely white cushion coated in dense fluffy fur, it reminded Ouma of a dog or a polar bear. He didn’t want to stop touching it. He wordlessly turned to Amami, hugging the cushion to his body, and approached the other boy. Amami was still focused on digging through his own pile of cushions. Ouma rubbed the cushion against the only bit of exposed flesh he could see on Amami, his face, or more specifically his cheek. He yelped in alarm of the sudden touch, jolting away from Ouma, his own surprised laugh escaping from behind the cushion.

“Soft,” Ouma explained in a single word, holding out the cushion like an offering. The taller boy stepped back towards him and ran his fingers against the furry item. “It’s like a bear,” he justified, appealing to Amami’s animal loving side.

“It is,” Amami hummed, continuing to stroke the cushion in Ouma’s arms, “and it’s _really_ soft,” he remarked almost breathlessly. It was addictive to touch. “Is there a second one?” Ouma shoved the cushion into Amami’s arms and hunted back through the cushions on his side, successfully finding a second matching cushion. Amami took them both in his arms, refusing Ouma’s offer to go back and get a trolley. They continued their exploring, through Ouma noted they probably shouldn’t get much more. There was only so much they could carry.

 

The next place they halted was, surprisingly, at an area dedicated to garden furniture. Ouma had thought it would be silly to look over there, Amami didn’t have a garden, but at Amami’s insistence that there could be something good there they approached. Most of it was lighting, seating and tables, but there were a few interesting ornaments that caught their attention. It was hard not to stare at a collection of gnomes after all. As they were on their way out of the garden area, Ouma had found his gaze captured. Amami had continued ahead without Ouma initially, spinning back round and backtracking once he realised he walking alone.

“You like things like this?” Amami questioned, snapping Ouma out of his daze like state.

“Uh, I-I guess,” embarrassed, he stuttered out a vague statement. He wasn’t entirely sure why he felt so on the spot though, it wasn’t a particularly unusual object. The smooth, marbled chess table stood on one metal leg, strangely holding his attention.

“Do you play chess?” Amami asked, circling the table, possibly looking for the price. It would be hard to take back, a bad thing to buy at the moment.

“I know how to play,” Ouma clarified, admittedly he hadn’t actually had the opportunity to play the game due to not having an opponent, or a chess board, but he had learned how to play online. His connection had never been reliable enough to finish a game online though, so he settled for just learning. “B-but this wouldn’t be good for the house, sorry,” his eyes settled downwards, one hand clutching his schoolbag harder. Why would he look at something so obviously unsuited to Amami’s house? Something made for being outside no less.

“It’s okay,” Amami responded quickly to Ouma’s out of place apology, causing his head to flick up to the other boy. “The table might be too hard to get home today, but we can find a regular chess board to take home, I’m sure they’ll have some in the toy section.” Ouma’s chest fluttered. Amami was so thoughtful. He followed Amami without another word as they found the toy section, snagging a chess board quickly. “Is there anything else you want?” Amami asked, arms still full of cushions, the box containing the chess board and pieces in Ouma’s possession. He shook his head so Amami led them both to the checkout to pay for everything they were holding. Thankfully they provided a bag for them to carry their things home in. It didn’t look like as much once it was all condensed into one bag. Ouma still would have felt bad if he had gone to look for more things though, Amami was the one paying for everything and he didn’t even pick either of the things they bought. He must have liked them both though, to pay for them and want them in his house. That was a relief at least.

Once they returned to Amami’s apartment, they unpacked their purchases, finding places for the new items quickly. The cushions were given their rightful places on the sofa, one at each end, both given a few more parting strokes as they were placed. The chess board would stay under the living room table. Amami offered Ouma a game, but Ouma had to refuse, he needed to study and had already lost some of that study time both yesterday and today. Amami seemed to understand, and instead busied himself with making their dinner.

 

Ouma took Amami up on an offer of a game of chess after dinner on Wednesday evening. He still needed to study, but one game surely wouldn’t cut into that study time too much. Plus, he had to admit he was a little excited to actually play a proper game of chess, with a real board and everything. He sat patiently while Amami set up the board, as he did so he explained that his grandfather had taught him to play. He used to stay with his grandfather when he was too young to be left alone while his father travelled. Ouma moved to the other side of the table, letting Amami keep the sofa to himself, and sat on his knees on the floor opposite.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable?” Amami checked again, seeming dissatisfied with Ouma’s nodding.

“It’s really fine,” he defended, excited eyes taking in the board set up in front of them. “White goes first,” he pointed out, wanting to game to begin. Amami had the side with the white pieces.

“Alright,” he seemed to pump himself up, Amami had more experience actually playing so he would probably win, it seemed unnecessary to need to hype himself up. He reached out to a pawn, lifted it, the small plastic piece clicking against one of the many silver rings on his fingers, and placed it back down two spaces ahead. There wasn’t much else to do on the first turn, but the piece selected looked almost random. He didn’t open up either of the diagonals to his king, so no turn 2 check for either of them.

They each took their turns moving their pieces, Amami always paused, thinking about what to do next, before deliberately moving each piece. Ouma took his turns a little faster, eyes fixated on the board at all times, mind swirling with ideas of what to move and when. Amami taking his time before each move only gave Ouma more time to consider his next possible moves.

“Check,” Ouma knew he had this game won. He had more pieces left on the board than his opponent, he just had to keep up putting him into check each turn until he had nowhere left to move. Amami still struggled though, refusing to give in to his impossible odds. He stubbornly scooted the king one square over. “Check,” Ouma stated as he moved his rook into position. Still, Amami struggled right up until the end. “Checkmate.” Amami gave a playful groan of defeat, unable to rebel any longer.

“I’ll get you next time,” he declared with a grin, pulling the game box back out to tidy up the board.

 

As the week progressed Ouma could see a difference in his wounds as he took the medication. His nauseous spells had become much less frequent, the fevers barely happening at all. The wounds would probably scar by the looks of it, or at least show on his skin for a long while, but he expected as much when they took so long to heal. He was glad they were both healing, it meant he wouldn’t have to go back with the cut on his thigh. Both had reduced in size and stickiness. The redness was going down more and more with each passing day along with the swelling. It really was a relief to see them recovering. It probably could have been a lot worse, hospitalising even, but thankfully a course of antibiotics seemed to be all he needed.

But his sense of relief wasn’t the only thing that grew as the week went on. His worry towards their scheduled meeting on Saturday also built. Meeting with Akamatsu and her friend. He couldn’t imagine a world where it wouldn’t be awkward. Her friend would probably feel just as weird. It would be Akamatsu and Amami talking while he clung to Amami in the same way her friend would likely cling to Akamatsu. Bad feelings all round. But Amami wanted him there, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Support maybe? He knew that Akamatsu wasn’t exactly a fan of her step-brother’s but he wondered how she actually acted towards him. If she was really harsh towards him, then maybe that’s why he would want someone to be there with him. Surely, he must be used to dealing with Akamatsu by himself though? There was no point wondering too hard about it though, they had already decided he was going so there was no getting out of it at this stage.

And, unfortunately for Ouma, Saturday came around much faster than he expected. His busier than average week resulted in time flying. He was glad Amami had gone ahead and washed his clothes, they all looked so much smarter hanging in the wardrobe all un-creased and everything. He didn’t have many sets of clothes, but it was better than having to wear his uniform everywhere.

Amami, on the other hand, had quite a lot of clothes. It looked like he owned more clothes than anything else in his house. It felt kind of pointless to Ouma to own a lot of clothing, they had to wear their school uniforms most of the time so no one needed a lot of outfits. Knowing Amami it made sense, he was at least aware of fashion, accessorising their bland, dark uniform with jewellery. Ouma grabbed his pair of dark blue jeans and a black top that was always slightly too loose on him. The material of the top was quite hard and rough, even Amami couldn’t wash some softness into it anymore he supposed, and though it ended around his upper thighs he was sure it used to hang a bit lower. He shrugged it off and grabbed his white hoodie, pulling it on over the top. His top may have been bland and boring, but adding the hoodie livened it up a bit more. Amami had suggested it to him while he had been fussing about what to wear the night before.

“You ready?” Amami called out, catching Ouma nervously pacing between the bedroom and bathroom. Ouma snapped round, embarrassed about being seen, but accepting that he really did have to leave otherwise they would both be late. He headed over to Amami, who had already put on his trainers ready to go. Ouma only had his loafers, but he was sure they looked fine with his jeans. Probably.

 

They headed out together, the café they had arranged to meet in was in the centre of the city, they could take the subway there, but since they left early enough, they opted to walk. Amami had seemed happy that the weather was bright again that morning, so Ouma agreed that walking was the best idea. Amami’s smiles were so brilliant, they had a power that couldn’t be denied. He had to admit, he was a little warm in his hoodie as they walked, not hot enough to take it off, but enough to worry about his hand getting sweaty in the other’s grasp. Amami had the right idea, the thin grey cardigan sitting atop his white t-shirt looked perfect for this weather.

“Is there anything I need to know about Akamatsu-san?” Ouma hesitantly spoke up as they walked, nerves twisting tightly. Amami made a humming sound as he thought about any warnings he would need to give about his family. Putting it like that made it kind of amusing to Ouma.

“She’s a little,” his eyes darted around as if the word would jump out at him from the buildings around them, “blunt,” he finally decided, looking back at Ouma at his side. “She can come off as a bit rude at times because she’s so,” he paused again, his cheerful expression cooling, “blunt.”

“What about her friend?” Ouma opted to change the topic quickly, Akamatsu didn’t sound like a nice person, that was probably why she was friends with Saihara in the first place. He didn’t like the way talking about her seemed to lower Amami’s relaxed mood, which seemed to lift again at the mention of the friend.

“She’s really nice, I’m sort of surprised they’re still friends. I suppose she can handle how Kaede can be,” he laughed behind closed teeth. “She’s kind of quiet too, I’m sure the two of you will get on fine,” he encouraged though Ouma wasn’t sure he really liked the sentiment. They wouldn’t necessarily just get along because they’re both shy. But Amami said before that she was sweet too, so he hoped that there were other factors at play when he said that.

 

“Here we are,” Amami announced as they arrived at a coffeeshop, it looked somewhat quaint and cosy despite being in the midst of the city. Amami led them in, opening the door to the gentle chime of a bell. “Ah,” Amami made a small sound, he must have spotted them already. “We’ll get our drinks first and join them,” Ouma nodded, unable to see into the seating area from behind Amami’s back.

They headed to the counter to order, Ouma wanted to look around for Akamatsu and her friend but couldn’t bring himself to. He instead kept his eyes fixed forwards, reading their drinks menu behind the counter up and down. Despite his furious reading of the words, none of them sank in, it was just a place to look.

“I’ll have the iced red bean boba, and,” Ouma saw the movement of Amami’s head out of his peripheral vision, “what would you like?” He felt his face begin to warm up as he realised he needed to make a quick decision. He knew he had no reason to be panicking like this, but he was. Was there anyone staring at them? Was there a queue forming behind them? Was Akamatsu watching them? Finally, his eyes fixed on something from their ‘new’ section, it was like Amami’s drink but a different flavour so it would be okay to ask for it, right? He didn’t want to order something expensive.

“The, the blue bubblegum b-boba, please,” he cursed the way his lips had struggled on the b’s in his sentence, desperately hoping no one really was paying attention to them. When his eyes finally focused on Amami again, it seemed like his worry was for naught. Amami was still smiling, and handed the money over to the cashier who also looked unphased. He let out a breath.

“This kind of sunny weather always makes me want sweet stuff, guess you’re the same?” Amami’s conversation flowed just as naturally as ever, being involved in his conversations were definitely a good way to calm down. Their drinks were placed in front of them after a couple of minutes, no one else had walked in so they weren’t blocking the counter for anyone. Amami’s drink was a dark pinkish red while Ouma’s was a bright chemical blue. It looked childish in hindsight, but it smelled incredibly sweet so he was excited to drink it. It made him think of liquid candy. They each picked up their drinks and Amami led them to the table he had spotted Akamatsu at when they had first walked in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> I've never been to an Ikea before, but I knew I had to make it so after the comments on last chapter! I watched a youtube tour to get an idea of what they look like inside and everything!


	30. Type

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is my boyfriend, Ouma,” Amami spoke up as if hearing his internal struggle. Ouma snapped to Amami upon hearing those words. Boyfriend?

Ouma walked slowly behind Amami, focusing purely on putting one foot in front of the other, eyes uselessly scoping out people sitting to the sides of them. He held his childish looking drink in both hands, desperate not to be caught staring. Amami halted in front of him once they reached a table, bench seating on each side.

“Hey Kaede,” Amami greeted casually, an accompanying lazy wave. He walked around to the edge of the bench, moving to sit opposite Akamatsu. Ouma immediately recognised the blonde girl from Saihara’s photo the moment he allowed himself to look over at them. She rolled her eyes at her step-brother’s words, her attitude mismatching her pastel pink drink.

Standing beside the table, Ouma scanned the appearance of Akamatsu’s friend. She sat straight despite the seating lacking a back. Her most standout feature from this angle was her hair, styled into bunches, her straight hair was so long that is nearly touched the floor from her seat, it was no wonder she sat so upright. He imagined tugging on one, the startled girl tipping backwards out of her seat. An amusing thought, but a bad first impression. She looked small though, a firm pull on her hair probably would be enough to topple her.

He shuffled round to take his seat beside Amami. Seeing the girl from the front gave a different impression altogether. Her cute hairstyle didn’t match the glare she appeared capable of. Her sharp red eyes coupled with her pale skin, framed by dark hair was definitely an intimidating look. From the side she gave the appearance of someone following a youthful and feminine fashion, but front on she appeared far sterner.

He flicked his eyes back across to Akamatsu, her silent friend busying herself with sipping from her drink. Akamatsu’s cold, bored stare was on him. Panic rising, he realised he hadn’t introduced himself yet, but he also hadn’t been introduced to them yet either. What should he say?

“This is my boyfriend, Ouma,” Amami spoke up as if hearing his internal struggle. Ouma snapped to Amami upon hearing those words. Boyfriend? He hadn’t heard Amami say that before. Is that, is that what they were? Boyfriends? They lived together and kissed and stuff, but they had never acknowledged anything like that.

“Definitely seems your type,” Akamatsu practically hissed, her words sharp though their meaning was unclear to Ouma it definitely seemed to strike something in Amami if the tensing in his neck was anything to go by. “I’m Akamatsu,” she turned to Ouma, hardly bothering to even plaster on a fake smile for him. “This is my friend Harukawa,” the girl opposite him nodded, straw still in her mouth, a good excuse to not have to join in the conversation.

“Nice to meet you both,” he managed to squeak, somewhat proud for not getting tongue tied for once.

“How’s school –” Amami’s question was cut off almost immediately.

“So, about the money?” Akamatsu cut straight to the chase, Amami almost visibly flinching. Ouma looked away, the scene too tense to watch. Harukawa looked to have the same idea, giving him a small smile, finally removing the drink from her mouth.

 

“You and Akamatsu were, uh, pen pals, right?” Ouma attempted to make hushed conversation with the girl opposite him while the relatives beside them worked things out. She simply nodded. This wasn’t going to be easy. “What, what was that like?” He struggled to try and form a conversation from what he knew about her, attempting to channel some of Amami’s natural charisma.

“She has interesting things to say,” she spoke as if faraway, a distant look about her as she gazed to the side.

“Oh?” Ouma urged for more, unsure how to progress.

“She got me interested in Danganronpa, for example,” she explained, her comment matching what Amami had told him about their friendship. “Though I never thought I’d be interested at first.”

“Would you go on it?” the question felt like it came out of nowhere, even to Ouma himself. He knew that Akamatsu wanted to go on it, and remembered how much it had looked to upset Amami. To his surprise, she shook her head.

“I like my life, I wouldn’t change my past for anything,” a wholesome sentiment. “Besides,” she continued, “people look up to me as student council president, I couldn’t let them down by throwing my life away like that.” Her wistful expression was replaced by that stern look again, a determination to defend what she had in her life. It wasn’t a look he was used to seeing.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be going on Danganronpa soon enough, then you won’t have to worry about paying me anymore,” Akamatsu’s voice cut through their conversation, words sharp, moulded to hurt Amami.

“Kaede,” he spoke through tightly clamped teeth.

“I’ll get to live a whole new life,” she carried on as if she hadn’t heard anything, her tone was almost gloating.

“Enough,” Amami growled again, his pain was evident on his face. Opposite him, Harukawa’s focus had also been captured by the disagreement, but she didn’t look like she was going to jump in anytime soon, her straw back in her mouth again.

“You just can’t bear it, can you?” Akamatsu stood, drink in hand, face cold. “The thought of me doing what I want.”

“I don’t want you to die,” he desperately whispered, hands curled into fists on the table.

“Yeah right, as if that’s all there is to it,” she rolled her eyes again, seemingly a sign for her friend to also stand, preparing to leave. “It’s my choice what I want to do with my life.” With those parting words, the pair left, Harukawa giving a subtle wave of the hand as she followed Akamatsu’s storming. Ouma helplessly looked to Amami who ran a hand through his hair, sighing out his frustrations.

“Sorry about that,” his voice sounded downtrodden, lost. Ouma had no idea what to say, no idea how to comfort him. He settled for just scooting closer on the bench and placing a hand atop Amami’s on the table. He seemed to relax a little, so he hoped that was the right thing to do. In the silence, however, his mind did replay their meeting and he had to wonder, what exactly did Akamatsu mean when she looked at him and said ‘seems your type’? What kind of type did Amami have? Vulnerable, anxiety ridden messes? That certainly wasn’t the kind of person Amami hung out with. Maybe it had just been a dig of some kind.

 

The Sunday in comparison had been relaxed and utterly boring. It wasn’t a bad thing though, it was peaceful. After the worry and tension of the day before, it was pleasant to have a day of nothing. Monday was back to their regular routine. The day started completely typically and Ouma would have been happy for the whole day to pass as normal, but that wasn’t the case.

“Hey, Ouma!”

He heard his name called out across the hallway as he was sneaking off his usual spot for lunch. He recognised Amami’s voice immediately, but there was no reason for him to call on him during school. He spun around, only to see the scene he expected, which confused him further. Amami stood in the centre of his friend group, or at least the people he probably referred to as friends, he’d probably heard all sorts of stories about these people, not that he could put any faces to those stories. He froze, uncertain what Amami wanted him to do, until he gestured for Ouma to go over to him. Hesitantly he walked over, almost swaying with uncertainty. Once he was next to Amami, he could feel the eyes of his peers boring into him. What was this?

“Ah, so _this_ is your boyfriend?” hums of the other students surrounded him, becoming overwhelming very quickly. Amami had told them about him? When? They still hadn’t acknowledged the whole ‘boyfriend’ thing, but he guessed he didn’t say anything about it on Saturday, so maybe he took that as acceptance? Amami handled the talking, Ouma trapped in a shocked silence.

He ate lunch with Amami and his friends that day, he was vaguely involved in their conversations. He stayed near Amami. His friends seemed nice, but they only cared because he was with Amami. They only really cared about Amami. Still, he smiled back when they spoke and grinned at him, he was certain the other party was just as aware of the falsities they both wore.

 

Spending time with Amami and his friends at school became a regular occurrence. It never felt any more comfortable. They all laughed and joked, and Ouma just felt like he was _there_. Nothing more. Everyone, except for Amami, were strangers. But he couldn’t deny that it was nice not spending the entire day at school alone. Not all of his laughs were polite lies, some of the things they said, their stories, their jokes, were truly amusing. There were moments when he could convince himself that these were good people, that maybe not everyone is a horrendous being and he was just unlucky with the people that had been around him. Then he would see a glimpse of their true, monstrous selves and it would remind him that society was poisoned. A hushed murmur of ‘did you see this execution?’ or ‘this was one of my favourite moments’, or even ‘I would love to be on it, but they would never pick me’. Amami never involved himself in those conversations.

He knew those people weren’t _his_ friends, but he enjoyed greeting people he recognised between classes. He felt a little special when they would speak to him first. He felt the eyes of his own class on him, his relationship with their popular, handsome upperclassman open and all these new people suddenly speaking to him. They were jealous. _He_ had something _they_ were jealous of.

_Finally_.

He had found something good, something good in this abysmal world of the depraved that hungered for violence. That was something he would never let go. Amami made a commitment to him by inviting him to live in his house, knowing that Ouma would not be able to leave afterwards. He had no need to worry, Amami wouldn’t be going anywhere.

 

Their relationship began to evolve in their private life as well. With Ouma’s injuries just about healed, there was no worry of further harming him. They would scar, but they had almost flattened out completely. In bed, Amami let his hands lightly wander Ouma’s body again, like they had when the wounds were discovered. The feather light touches were welcomed, even more so against his skin as his clothes were shifted. Ouma let out a sigh as the other’s warm hands ghosted under his top, up to his chest, groping around until his fingers could rub against his nipples, his back arching slightly against Amami’s stomach. A kiss was placed against his neck, Ouma couldn’t help but flinch initially, Amami backing away from his neck, hands still moving against his body. Ouma tried to relax, lowering his shoulder again to present the side of his neck to Amami, knowing there was no danger. Not this time. The kisses were soft and slow, how could he not enjoy such tender affection?

Yet, no matter how much he wanted to clear his mind and feel nothing but those delicate touches, it felt like something was missing. Could it be that he was used to be being treated like something precious? It wasn’t that he wanted it to end, absolutely not, things were better for him now than they had ever been in his life. Was it that he wanted to be treated more roughly during intimacy? He guessed that was what he was used to. His only sexual encounters had been with Saihara and Momota, neither of which were exactly tender, gentle partners. Perhaps his own experience made him long for being gripped harder, those greedy, hungry touches. He kept quiet, the longer he could keep his own history secret from Amami, the better.

“Do you want to keep going?” Amami whispered into his ear, fingers caressing the skin just above his waistband. Ouma nodded, there was no reason not to keep going. He was Amami’s boyfriend. It wasn’t like sex was anything special anyway. He learned that Amami kept a pump bottle of lube in stand beside his bed, Saihara had done the same, it did seem like the most useful place for it as men living alone. Well, he guessed Amami didn’t live alone anymore.

 

Clothes were removed, Ouma getting the opportunity to fully see Amami for the first time. He wondered how many other people had seen him like that. He wondered how many wanted to. His body was broad, leaner than he expected. He noted that his own body, while still thin was not as sharp and angular as it used to be. He guessed all that regular eating of different types of food had been good for getting his body to a healthier size.

Ouma laid on his back, watching Amami above him lube up his fingers. Those slick fingers were slowly pushed into him, carefully stretching. Amami leaned down, skin touching skin, their mouths meeting. Amami didn’t pull away, Ouma parted his lips allowing Amami’s tongue entry. The feeling of their tongues rubbing and twisting combined with the feeling of his exploring fingers was intoxicating. The feeling of his body being totally overwhelmed by another person. Amami’s breath came in ragged hot pants with the movement of his arm, the kiss continuing through it.

He wanted more. Amami still seemed focused on preparing him, but he couldn’t wait any longer. The urge to voice his desires bubbled in his throat, nerves keeping the words from escaping. Amami would listen, he told himself, Amami cared about what he wanted. He made a whining sound around the other’s tongue, their kiss finally breaking.

“Please,” he huffed, certain that he sounded desperate, needy. Amami nodded, seemingly not needing to hear any further explanation of what he wanted. The fingers were removed, his body leaned over Ouma to reach for something else in the cabinet beside them. He was probably just getting more lube.

Instead he returned to view holding a square wrapper, tearing it hastily. A condom? He wondered why Amami felt the need to use one, it wasn’t like he was going to get him pregnant. No one else had ever used one on him before. Did Amami think he was dirty? He didn’t know where Ouma had been, so felt the need to play it safe? He knew it was good practice, but at the same time he couldn’t help but feel a little off about it. Offended maybe? He knew it was wrong to feel that way about the other just being safe, but he couldn’t help how he felt. Saihara was perfectly happy to put it straight in him without any of those concerns. He watched Amami roll it on, the creamy white colour covering his erection. He grabbed another pump of lube, slathering it over the latex.

“You should turn over, I think it’ll feel better for you if you’re on your front,” Amami advised, standing on his knees to give Ouma room to shift around. He followed the instructions, moving so that he was facing the pillows, Amami’s still slippery hands gripped his narrow hips, guiding them upwards to a position comfortable for them both. His hips were higher than his shoulders, he kept his upper body slightly elevated on his elbows. It was similar to the position Momota had put him in, except he could keep his upper body raised as well. He didn’t feel so exposed this time.

“Like this?” He questioned after a moment of no movement from the other.

“Yeah, are you sure you want to do this?” Ouma nodded, feeling Amami move up against his entrance. As he pushed in, he noted that there wasn’t much of difference in feeling between not using a condom and using one. It was maybe a bit more smooth with one. He slid in easily, the hefty amount of lube definitely helping, though embarrassingly he could feel the excess drip down his thighs. The position felt good, Amami seemed to be moving easily and it didn’t hurt at all, still that strange, slightly uncomfortable feeling that came with the territory but it wasn’t a bad feeling. At the same time, he felt less involved. Saihara had always seemed to enjoy looking at him, watching him while they did things. Even Momota had turned his face to the side to look at him while they fucked. Amami didn’t seem to have any interest, despite having spent their foreplay glued to his mouth.

They didn’t speak during it. The only sounds were those of their bodies moving against each other and their heavy breathing. Regardless, it felt good. Ouma was pretty sure he came first, though he wouldn’t have felt if the other had finished first, Amami pulling out shortly after, removing and tying up the filled condom. He supposed now their relationship couldn’t be brought into question.

 

He needed Amami, there was no question about that. He had made a dangerous gamble by moving in with him, and now he needed that not to change. Amami improved his life, he got him out of his abusive household, provides him with everything he needs and now even involves in him in his friendship circle at school. Ouma knew that Amami would keep his word, he was sure no matter what happened, Amami wouldn’t sling him out of what was now their home. He wasn’t that kind of person. All the same, Ouma wanted to keep Amami on side. That was easy enough to do, as his boyfriend. He would never push Amami away, it didn’t matter the kind of mood he was in, if Amami wanted something that he could give, it was the least he could do to give it.

Amami wouldn’t ever make him do something if he voiced that he didn’t want to do it, so he simply would never voice those things. He would make Amami feel wanted, _needed_ , because he was. As long as Ouma was good to him, Amami would never leave.

Amami would be his, forever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!   
> Things are moving again! I did not think that this would be over 30 chapters long when I started, spent a little too long on some of the events but we're moving back along again now! 
> 
> Also tumblr user desisketchy (desisketchy.tumblr.com) recreated one of the more intense scenes in this fic as a manga, please check out their amazing work!   
> Part 1 - https://desisketchy.tumblr.com/post/184195135299/before-the-storm-the-walnut-gallery%C2%BD  
> Part 2 - https://desisketchy.tumblr.com/post/184195200784/before-the-storm-the-walnut-gallery22


	31. Differences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needed to make sure everyone knew it. Knew that they couldn’t whisk Amami away regardless of who they were .

Ouma still met Amami at the school gates at the end of each day. It didn’t matter how much time they spent together, Ouma was always still relieved to see him standing there. He wasn’t sure why he always sort of expected him to not show up, it was completely baseless, but he was always pleased to see him there.

“Here,” Amami held a hand out, Ouma holding his open palm beneath Amami’s fist. The fist opened, a metallic jangling before a cold object landed in his hand.

“What’s this?” Ouma asked, needlessly really, he could tell it was a key. There was only really one place Amami could possibly want to give him a key for.

“It’s the door key,” nonetheless, Amami humoured him with an explanation. ‘The door key’, Ouma’s mind echoed. ‘The’ meaning that there was only one. Why was Amami handing his key over? Though his manner did seem unusually brisk. At Ouma’s silence, he offered further context. “I’m helping out Sho-kun with his club tonight, it’s just moving stuff around really so you should head back, I’ll come home when I’m done.”

Sho was one of Amami’s many friends, a serious boy with short, dark hair. He ran an art club, if Ouma remembered correctly. A few of the other friends would show up to the club erratically, with the exception of one of the girls who would attend religiously. She was equally as quiet as Sho, her long hair almost made her invisible at times, like a cloak. She was apparently not very creative or good at drawing, but everyone was welcome to the art club regardless of talent. They were there to have fun, often loud ruckus fun. It sounded wholesome and ideal, but in all likelihood, it was as corrupt as everything else around them.

“Okay, I’ll see you tonight,” Ouma tried to sound as casual as possible, despite the choking sensation tugging at his throat. Don’t panic, he told himself, he knew Amami sometimes helped out after school, it was going to happen eventually. Those people are _his_ friends, of course they’re going to want him to hang around with them.

 

Ouma definitely felt like something was missing as he left the school grounds, the emptiness beside him now unfamiliar. It was pathetic how he had grown so used to always being accompanied, but there were worse things to be accustomed to. His head turned almost instinctively to the alley he always used to see Saihara at. Being alone for once must have sparked the idea that he would be there. He wasn’t. Ouma didn’t know what he would have done if Saihara had been there.

He made it back to Amami’s apartment without any problems other than his unavoidable awkwardness upon having to quietly greet the receptionist in the lobby. Amami usually did that for both of them. He could never get used to there being someone there.

Once he was in the apartment, he wondered what to do. He didn’t know when Amami would be back, but he probably had at least an hour of being alone there. One part of him wanted to snoop every cranny of the home, another part of him just wanted to carry on with his normal routine. It would be nice if he made dinner for Amami, but not knowing when he would return made that much more difficult. In the end, he just couldn’t resist his urge to snoop, but it wasn’t mindless. He had a goal. He should find his phone.

He started with the one room he never entered, save for the first time when he just wanted to know what was in there. Akamatsu’s abandoned bedroom. It was as pristine and untouched as he remembered. Boring and lifeless. It was the only place he could think of that would work as a hiding place from him. There was nothing obviously out on any of the shelves or anything like that, and a quick search showed that there was nothing inside any of the draws either. The bed was empty, nothing hidden under the sheets, or under the bed itself. With a huff, he exhausted the possibilities in that room and moved onto the next, their own bedroom.

The apartment wasn’t particularly huge, it didn’t take an hour to search it, especially with its lack of furniture. The disappearance of his phone was puzzling and concerning. He was still worried about bringing it up again to Amami, not wanting the other to get suspicious about why he wanted it back. At the same time, where could he have possibly put it? He would be mad if Amami had thrown it away or lost it, but that didn’t seem like the kind of thing he would do. Then the only other option was that Amami kept the phone on him. It sounded crazy, but it would stop Ouma from being able to find it. He had no good reason to rifle through Amami’s school bag, so it would be the best place for hiding it. How determined was Amami to keep him away from that device? How upset had he looked when Amami found him? As infuriating as it was, Amami was being kind, even in doing this. Amami was always trying to look out for him.

Ouma was glad that he didn’t try to prepare any dinner, since when he knocked on the door, about an hour and a half after Ouma had arrived back, Amami had collected food from a local take away. During dinner Ouma was regaled with the stories of the fun time he’d had with the art club, despite having originally only been there to help move things around.

 

Ouma knew Amami had plenty of friends, and that they were his friends way before he and Amami were, well, anything. He also knew that Amami was quite popular among those he hadn’t befriended due to his looks and pleasant nature. Amami had announced their relationship to his friends, sure, but he needed to make sure everyone knew it. Knew that they couldn’t whisk Amami away regardless of who they were or how close of a friend they happened to be.

Amami didn’t seem to mind Ouma latching onto his arm whenever they met up during school. Their relationship was no secret, so why would he mind affection from his loving boyfriend? The people around them seemed to get the message pretty quickly, even if Amami himself seemed oblivious to a message even being sent out. The way Ouma would cling to Amami’s side and the bored, sideways glances he would give to those who got too close, or took up too much of their time, didn’t go unnoticed by those around them. People didn’t leave them, but no one would encroach on what they had. It was perfect.

Amami didn’t ask for his key back. To Ouma it was almost like a trade, his phone for the door key. He was okay with it. While he wanted to whine for his phone to be returned still, he didn’t want Amami to stop trusting him. Currently it felt like they were hiding nothing from each other day to day, there were things Ouma wouldn’t tell him about past events, and he was sure Amami was the same, but there were no activities going on that the other wasn’t privy too. The only exception was when Amami needed to go help out at the art club, which wasn’t regular, but certainly was becoming more frequent than he would like. Apparently during warmer weather, they do more events, more incorporating of nature into their works and outdoor activities and so more people attend than the rest of the year. It sounded like an excuse to get more time with Amami without Ouma, after all he was certain that Amami’s friends only saw him as an eyesore. An obstacle blocking them from hanging out with their friend as much as they wanted.

As long as they knew Amami was his, and that they were to keep their hands away from him, then it was fine. Not that he thought Amami was the type of person to do something like that, but he could probably be taken advantage of quite easily. While he seemed to understand things easily, he could still probably be quite easily tricked. He was very trusting after all. Ouma found that now he actually had something good in his life, he wanted to protect it, keep it safe from all the horrifying things in this world. He had seen first hand how terrible people could be, he wouldn’t let Amami see that.

 

They had to meet with Akamatsu again, another money thing according to Amami. It was at the same café as before, and she would apparently have friends with her. Amami made sure to emphasise that plural. Ouma only knew of two people she could have around her, so it wasn’t a stretch to assume she would be with both Harukawa and Saihara. Saihara was certainly the last person he wanted to see, but Harukawa seemed reliable, like she wouldn’t let something untoward happen in her presence. Amami clearly wanted Ouma to accompany him, so he agreed to go.

He noticed as he was getting ready that all this regular eating was definitely making a difference to his body. He was undeniably getting a bit bigger, he wondered if he had made it to actually being a healthy weight for his age and height. His clothes weren’t as loose on him anymore, he actually began to feel that things were fitting him better. Amami certainly seemed to think so, wrapping his arms around his waist and complimenting his appearance as they prepared to head out.

Ouma had to admit, he wanted to show off a bit in front of Saihara. As scared as he was of seeing the other boy again, this time he had something to flaunt. It did little to ease the trembling that ran through his body as they headed over, his grip tight on Amami’s hand. He would avoid talking to Saihara at all costs. He hoped it would be possible to sit away from him. He wondered how he and Harukawa got on. They were both Danganronpa fans, so maybe they did actually get on well? Though he couldn’t imagine her putting up with his incessant rambling. His stomach turned at the memories of what he was like sometimes. The way those gory scenes would light up his eyes, put him on the edge of his seat and-. No. No more detail needed, he steered himself away from those grotesque thoughts. The way Saihara was and the way he had gone along with it, giving Saihara an outlet for his twisted desires. No. Not important.

Once they got to the café doors, Ouma wrapped himself around Amami’s arm, nestling into his side, their hands still entwined. The school pose. It drew attention to himself, which usually he would despise, but being around Amami was always going to draw in looks. As long as people were looking, they would see that they were together, that Amami was Ouma’s and vice versa. That other people could just leave them alone.

 

“You ready?” Amami checked, at Ouma’s almost confident nod, he pushed open the door. Like before, they went straight to the counter to get their own drinks first even though they could see where the others were sitting. They had been spotted coming in too, if Saihara’s fixated stare was anything to go by. The seating arrangement looked fortuitous for Ouma. Akamatsu sat between her friends, meaning Amami would sit opposite her, allowing him to sit opposite Harukawa again, as far from Saihara as possible.

They ordered their drinks, Amami went for the same option again while Ouma went for a more calming iced rose flavoured drink. Their orders were ready in only a couple of minutes, nerves bubbled in Ouma’s chest, he held himself tightly against Amami. As soon as they turned around, Ouma attempted to wipe any remnants of that fear from his face, instead showing the group all smiles and grins as Amami led him over to their table. He avoided eye contact with Saihara for any length of time, constantly shifting his gaze along to the other people he was with, or in general anywhere else. Each time he did glance over to him however, his murky eyes were locked on Ouma. It was unsettling, both the staring and the smile. The smile that tugged at his lips was more akin to a smirk, like something uncontrolled was pulling at his mouth. Like he knew something hilarious that no one else knew. The corners of his mouth still glistened with saliva as always, the same unchanged disgusting boy he was before. He had a wonderfully presentable boyfriend now, a definite upgrade in every sense of the word.

Amami and Akamatsu went straight into their financial talks with little greeting. Akamatsu really wasn’t one for wasting time. It felt like she did not want to spend more time with her step-brother than she had to. Ouma wondered why. He could understand her not wanting to live with him, especially considering their family was well off enough to be able to house them both separately without an issue. He couldn’t understand her apparent distaste for him though. He guessed it was more than just a simple argument or anything petty like that.

He shifted his attention to Harukawa opposite him, silently drinking through the straw of her drink. He noticed that she looked his way as well, so he offered her a small wave, the palm of his hand against the edge of the table. She mimicked the action, an unspoken greeting that didn’t disturb the main conversation. Her piercing crimson eyes darted in Saihara’s direction, then back to him. She did this a couple of times, as if trying to ask a question without words. He guessed she was trying to gauge if they knew each other, an understandable query given Saihara’s lecherous staring. He shook his head, he didn’t know exactly what the question was, but he was sure she would get the notion that his feelings towards Saihara were negative. She nodded back at him, he hoped that meant she got it. He decided to ask the same thing to in return, darting his back and forth in the same way. She also gave a shake of her head, a subtle but firm action. He nodded. Their silent conversation brought a bit of an unforced smile to his face, it was like a game, or an inside joke that he was in on. He decided that he liked Harukawa. A student council president would need to be strict and dependable, but at the same time approachable and willing to help people. Her appearance was a little intimidating, but her actions were certainly not.

Amami and Akamatsu’s conversation ended in vitriol once again.

“This should be enough to keep me going until, you know, you don’t have to deal with me anymore,” her tone was teasing, eyes squinted. A detestable expression. Like she was rubbing her own impending demise in his face for caring.

“Yeah,” he hissed in return, “it should.” With that he stood, Akamatsu’s eyes widening, her whole posture shifting backwards in what seemed to be shock at his reaction. Last time he was hurt and angry after hearing her cruel words. This time he was short with her, accepting and sharp. Ouma let himself smirk at them too, standing beside Amami, always close. Saihara still stared, unphased by their commotion. Ouma looked down on him as well, wrapping his arms around Amami’s free arm as they left.

The atmosphere around Amami was still tense after they left café, Ouma still stuck for comforting words, only able to be a constant presence of affection for him. The tension evaporated before too long, returning them back to their new sense of normal. The normal Ouma liked.

 

“Whoops, almost forgot our lunches!” Amami announced while they were getting themselves ready for school. He darted towards the fridge, pulling out the two boxes and shoved them into their school bags. Ouma thought it was kind of impressive that Amami would always get their lunches together and remember them, it was understandable to occasionally forget.

“I’m going to be late home today,” Amami informed him that same morning on their way to school. A few days had passed since the meeting with Akamatsu, everything seemed to be fine again, but this was strange. Amami never told Ouma in the morning that he was helping with the club, usually during the day or after school. The plans were rarely made early.

“Helping at the art club?” he checked, receiving affirmation that he was. Ouma still had their keys, so it wasn’t a problem for him, but something still struck him as strange about the whole scenario. He tried to shake off the feeling all day, but just couldn’t rid himself of the sensation that something was up. Amami’s friends all seemed the same, chatting and joking as usual while Ouma held tightly onto Amami. During their conversations he picked up that another of the group was heading to the art club after school, the one that towered over the others, an intimidating broadness alongside that height. It seemed odd to him that the art club would need both him and Amami to help out, if they were just moving things again then he was sure they wouldn’t need Amami anymore.

He wasn’t waiting at the school gates that evening. It wasn’t a surprise, but a part of him hoped that the plans had changed. He headed back, sparing a glance to the alley but seeing neither Saihara nor Momota, thankfully. He arrived back at the apartment, nothing out of place, and started on his homework. Amami was usually back in less than 2 hours after school, and had taken to bringing back dinner with him.

More time passed than normal. Ouma had finished all the work he needed to do for school, his stomach making dissatisfied growls in protest. Amami would be back soon.

Amami would be back soon.

Those words were repeated in his mind like a mantra as he sat, staring at the door. His skin prickled while his stomach grumbled and churned. Something was different. But no matter what, Amami would be back soon. There was no way he wouldn’t be. It was _his_ house! Amami wouldn’t leave him. Amami _couldn’t_ leave him.

Thoughts whirling through his mind, he eventually laid himself down on the sofa, his eyelids drooping as he got himself comfortable. He would hear the door when Amami came in, then he could ask him where he had been. It was late now. He must have decided to hang out with his friends after the club. Ouma had no way to contact Amami without his phone, or Amami’s number. It would be okay though, because when he next opened his eyes, Amami would be coming in through the front door, and everything would be normal again.

 

Ouma slept through the night without disruption.   

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!   
> Some very exciting things are happening very soon!


	32. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He returned to their empty home after school. What else could he do? Continue as normal until he turned up again? He needed information.

The morning light poured in through the still open curtains, tearing Ouma from his light, peaceful slumber. He blinked his eyes open, confused. He was on the sofa in the living room instead of in bed. Then the events of yesterday came back to him at full force. He stared intently at the front door, which appeared to have not budged, and at the shoe rack devoid of Amami’s school shoes still. A feeling of sickness bubbled in his stomach, a combination of dread, worry, fear, everything. He couldn’t even bring himself to move, a mass of emotions weighing him down, gluing him to the sofa he laid on. After an unknown amount of time had passed, he heard a noise from their bedroom, a shrill repeating tone blaring out. It was the only sound he could make out from anywhere in the apartment. He managed to slide from the sofa to his feet and drag himself into the bedroom once the sound of their school alarm had grated on his last nerve. He shut it off with a heavy clap of his hand, sparing a glance to their untouched bed. Still made. Amami hadn’t come back home.

He must have stayed over at his friend’s house. It was the only thing that would make any sense. Or maybe when he left the club, he hung out with his friends until it got dark and was murdered on his way home. It was more likely that he had just stayed over his friend’s house after hanging out. He hoped that was the case. Of the two options at least. He hurriedly got himself ready for school, grabbing something that was ready to eat for breakfast and lunch.

 

There was no sign of Amami anywhere. He wasn’t in the halls. His friends were around, but no Amami. Maybe he was ill? He could have stayed at the friend’s house if he got ill last night. He could be in a hospital. What happened? Where was he? That sick, twisting feeling didn’t leave him. At lunchtime he approached the group on shaky legs, unsure how to even broach the subject of his missing boyfriend. Thankfully as soon as they saw the small boy approach them alone, they seemed to know what he was after.

“Isn’t Amami-kun in today?” the tall, intimidating looking one questioned first, the moment Ouma was close enough to speak to. It caught him off guard.

“H-he’s not,” he slowly sputtered, surprised. What did that mean? These people should know exactly where he is.

“How come? Is he sick?” a quieter voice spoke up, the short haired boy that was head of the art club. A look of genuine concern was plastered across his face. Ouma had no idea what kind of face he himself was making, probably a cross of shock and fear.

“He,” Ouma drew the word out, trying to gain any sort of understanding of the situation before blurting out all he knew, “he was with you after school, right? At the art club?” he tried to hold strong, keeping his attention trained on the group for any signs of deception. Instead all he could see was widespread confusion and worry.

“No,” another of the group spoke, his blond fringe bouncing with the movements of his head.

“He said he couldn’t come,” the art club captain spoke up again, looking almost as nervous as Ouma at this point. “He said you two were going out somewhere last night.” What? Ouma just shook his head wordlessly. Then, where was he?

“I sent him a text last night and he never answered,” one of the girls chimed in, her bubbly, ditzy attitude contrasting the seriousness of their conversation. “He never leaves me on read,” she childishly whined. Ouma found her quite annoying for the majority of the time, mostly because she was _always_ like that. A lot of people seemed to really like her innocent and playful façade, but to Ouma it was just that. A façade. People aren’t like that, not anymore.

Not enough time had passed that they could go to the police with a missing person case. It seemed he had told all of his friends that he and Ouma had something planned, no details, while he had told Ouma that he was helping with the club. No one had seen him after school, and no one had been able to get in contact with him since. Maybe he really had been killed. Ouma tried to keep that thought down. It was nonsensical. He remembered the way he had decked Momota in the alley, the metal of his rings biting into the bully’s face, there was no way he could just be killed off like that. In the background. Without anyone knowing. No way.

 

He returned to their empty home after school. What else could he do? Continue as normal until he turned up again? He needed information. He had already searched the house before when he had been looking for his phone, nothing unusual had turned up then so why would anything turn up now? He needed to find something else.

He needed to know how long he could stay in the apartment for. It must have been paid up to a certain time, he needed to know how long he would continue to have a roof over his head if the worst came to be, and Amami never returned. Ouma’s hands trembled as he rifled through pages and pages of any documentation he could find. What had Amami done? If he was in some kind of accident, then fair enough, it would have been nice if he had given Ouma back his phone so that they could have some kind of contact. If this was some pre-mediated event and he had intentionally left Ouma alone, then, then, he didn’t even know what then! His frame shook with anger at the thought, his eyes stung with tears. What the hell was going on?

He found the paperwork he needed. He didn’t have long to stay. The next payment was due at the start of the next month, only a couple of weeks away. After combing through the entire apartment again he could conclude that no money had been left. There was some food, he could probably make it last a couple of weeks, provided he could work out how to cook it all.

Where was Amami?

 

It only took a couple of days until the school was abuzz with rumours of Amami’s disappearance. Ouma kept his head down, separated himself from Amami’s friends. School was like it was before he had been introduced to that group. Lonely. He wasn’t sure at what point spending time with people felt like it improved his day, instead of being a chore. He felt it now that he was back to avoiding them. Hearing their incessant, venomous rumours reminded him why he avoided people in the first place.

Some people said he’d been hit by a car. Others said he was attacked late at night. Stories of kidnappings and ransoms abound. Of course, he heard the hushed whispers that suggested he was to blame for Amami’s disappearance. That he had killed Amami, or that he had Amami tied up in his house somewhere. He didn’t acknowledge any of them. No one had more information to base their accusations on than anyone else. It was all just nonsense. The one that hurt the most to hear was the idea that Amami had killed himself, often those ones found a way to blame Ouma for it as well. The cause of Amami’s misery. People had really not liked hearing that they were together it seemed, and this was perfect outlet for their latent bitching.

Once home, after ruminating over the size and emptiness of the apartment, he got to making himself a fast dinner. Nothing as nice as Amami would make, but edible enough. He was working on his homework, every room silent, when he heard an odd noise. A kind of muffled rumble, or something like that. The sound had caught his attention, a sudden sound amidst the thick nothingness that had enveloped the room. Then, another one. He carefully skulked over to his schoolbag, abandoned against the living room wall. He could have sworn it was coming from that direction, but there was nothing in his bag that should have been making any noise at all. He opened it up and searched through it, curiously feeling for anything he didn’t recognise.

Instead his hands grazed across something he did recognise. He snatched the object up and stared in wonder. A familiar device with a small Monokuma charm dangling from the corner. His phone was in his own bag? Since when? He tried to think back to when it could have been put in there. There was only one time he could recall when Amami had gone into his schoolbag without Ouma being there, holding it open. The morning before he vanished.

_“Whoops, almost forgot our lunches!” Amami announced while they were getting themselves ready for school. He darted towards the fridge, pulling out the two boxes and shoved them into their school bags._

Did he put his phone in along with the lunches then? Ouma wasn’t in the same room, it was his only opportunity to do something like that, he was sure. Then, it _was_ planned.

 

He unlocked his phone quickly, eager to find what had caused the buzzing sounds he’d heard. His enthusiasm deflated when he saw that he had 2 messages from Saihara and no one else. He tapped to read them.

“You were alone again today.” “Are you there?” Ouma let out a shuddering breath, of course Saihara was still watching him. The way he’d stared at him during that meeting with Akamatsu made that obvious. He was certainly dedicated. He pressed his thumb against the screen and dragged it down to read their last exchange. To his surprise, there were messages he didn’t recognise. Even more surprisingly, he had apparently responded. That meant that Amami spoke with Saihara over these texts. He read, his eyes wide with intense curiosity.

He found the last conversation he remembered having with Saihara.

“So, you’re living together now?”

“Yes,” Ouma remembered that he had been surprised to not receive any response from that. It was just as sharp and snippy as he remembered.

“I told you it won’t work out,” apparently Saihara did have more to say on the matter, but required a couple of days to think about it. Maybe he had been deciding whether or not to spill whatever secrets he supposedly had.

“I think this will work out just fine, you can delete this number now.” That was what Amami had written back to Saihara, assertive and demanding. Almost threatening. He must have read their previous conversations, and realised that Saihara was no good.

“Akamatsu said you were like this,” it seemed Saihara had caught on straight away that the last message had not been from Ouma, maybe he was serious about wanting to be a fantasy detective. Though it did sound pretty different from anything he would write. But what did it mean? What had Akamatsu said he was like?

“Like what?” It could have been a sincere question from Amami, but Ouma read it as more provocative than that. As if the real underlying question was ‘what do you know?’

“It isn’t surprising that you would do this, is all. You have to give it back at some point, or are you going to keep it forever?” Ouma kind of hated what he was reading. It was almost like he and Saihara were on the same side, and Amami was the one acting strangely.

“I’ll give it back if you get rid of this number.”

“Fine, I’ll get rid of it now.” Why would Saihara play along? Not that Ouma believed that Saihara really would get rid of his number from that message, but why humour Amami at all? Did he want Ouma to get his phone back that badly? What would he have said to Ouma if Amami had given it back sooner? It looked like a few days passed between that message and the next.

“Liar.” Saihara was the one to message first, calling Amami out on his lack of action. It wasn’t the first time Saihara had sent a message like that. His breath hitched slightly, the memory of those messages playing before his eyes. Saihara was definitely still watching them then, if he could tell Amami hadn’t done his part. Or maybe he was just trying to get a response out of whoever had the phone.

“I could say the same.” They were both at each other’s throats, yet it was odd to read the message log of these two strangers arguing with each other. They both seemed to keep a distance in their texts, a definite vibe of unknowingness.

“What’s your goal?” Saihara cut straight to the chase, trying to sniff out Amami’s intentions.

“I’m protecting him from people like you,” Ouma bit his lower lip. They both had points. Amami shouldn’t have taken his phone and not returned it, but at the same time after he saw the messages from Saihara, maybe he felt like he had to keep a hold of it for his safety.

“What’s your actual goal?” it looked like Saihara wasn’t buying it. That was the last message before the two today. He hadn’t expected Amami to look at his messages, let alone reply, and he definitely wouldn’t have expected Amami to reply in the way he did. The aggressive tone of his messages did not match the person he knew.

 

He finally wrote out a response to Saihara’s questions, thankfully there had been no more messages while he’d been reading the old ones. His mind whirled. He couldn’t believe that Amami not only read the messages between him and Saihara, but also replied to him. It made sense that Amami could be defensive and weirded out by Saihara from the content of their previous messages, especially the ones he had sent about Amami and whatever it was that he knew about him, but Amami didn’t really sound defensive. He sounded angry. Maybe there was really something to whatever Saihara knew.

“I’m here. Amami’s missing.” He’d sent the text before his brain had caught up. He probably shouldn’t have been honest that Amami was missing, he didn’t really want Saihara knowing he was alone, but at the same time, Saihara already knew, didn’t he?

He connected his phone to the charger, the battery on its last legs. If it had died before that message came through, he wondered if he ever would have noticed it sitting at the bottom of his bag. He knew that people shouldn’t use their phones while they were on charge, since doing that could damage the battery, but at that moment he didn’t care about the longevity of his phone. There had been no calls on the phone while he hadn’t had it, that was good. At least he knew the content of their conversations.

He couldn’t resist going back onto the Danganronpa forums, the ones that had got his phone confiscated in the first place. Maybe he thought Amami would appear from nowhere just to take it away again if he did. Needless to say, he didn’t. He saw that season 51 had finished a while ago, he’d completely lost track of where it was since he hadn’t been watching it. In the end the little girl, the ultimate ???, had turned out to be the mastermind. He didn’t really care to read too much into it, even though it was unexpected for both the ultimate ??? and a child to be the mastermind, it kind wasn’t surprising because it was so unexpected. It was almost obvious. He wondered how Saihara reacted to the ending, whether he had worked it out or not.

He also saw an announcement that the cast of the next season would be announced at midnight tonight in preparation for the season debut on Friday. The same scheduling as last time then. It was Thursday today, so they would announce the cast very late in comparison to normal. Ordinarily they released the cast a month beforehand. Scanning through the recent posts, it seemed like a lot of people had been complaining about the lack of information on their new cast. Other people commented claiming that they were sure it was going to be to do with the theme of the new season. He sighed, he would be long in bed by then, he certainly didn’t care enough about it to stay up specially to find out. He wasn’t even really sure why he had hopped onto the forums at all. Saihara still hadn’t responded while he’d been absentmindedly reading, so he decided to send a follow up message.

“Apparently they’re announcing the cast of season 52 tonight,” if that didn’t get a reaction out of Saihara, he didn’t know what would. It was almost comical how quickly he did respond.

“I know! I can’t wait,” he could almost imagine Saihara sitting, staring into his phone until midnight, drooling and flushed the whole time. He wondered how many other people would be doing the same. Disgusting.

 

No more messages were sent or received that night. Ouma just continued his usual pattern of studying, preparing food for the next day and sleeping. Once he awoke, he had breakfast and got ready for school as always. He checked his phone for messages and nothing more, no interest in going online and seeing the cast for season 52. He did not care. He was sure he’d overhear all about it in school anyway, fresh from the mouths of those that lived to watch others die. Sickening.

Without Amami’s relaxing positivity around him, everyone seemed much more detestable again. The world that would allow Amami to be taken from him was one he hated. One filled with repulsive people and their loathsome hobbies and passions. The only person that was different wasn’t there anymore.

Ouma headed to school as normal, his head swimming with bitterness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> Sorry I haven't been able to reply to last chapter's comments yet! I've read them all as they've come in and loved each and every one! I will still go back and reply to them all, probably on Sunday, but I just haven't been able to get around to doing it yet!


	33. Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amami was gone. It was all his fault.   
> “What did you do?”

The moment he got to school that Friday, he could tell something was off. Ordinarily everyone would ignore him, caught up in their own meaningless lives. Recently he had been the topic of some gossip, the theories around where Amami had gone and that he _had_ to have something to do with it due to their relationship. This was different though. When they were gossiping, they would do their best to hide it from him, although they made themselves more obvious by trying to be sneaky. This time he felt peoples’ attention on him, a strange staring with a lack of hushed whispers. They weren’t openly staring, but they may as well have been. Their glances pierced holes through him as he hesitantly walked through the school to his first class. He checked his reflection in windows on his way, trying to work out if it was to do with the way he looked, or the way he was walking or breathing or whatever. He couldn’t pin down anything that was different about him and it drove him crazy. What had changed? Why was everyone acting so weirdly?

He entered his classroom, the same looks were thrown his way. Even people tapping others on the shoulder and ‘subtly’ pointing his way. It was bizarre. Uncomfortable. He had never been interested in being the centre of attention, especially when he didn’t know the reason for the spotlight. Pointing his gaze to the ground, he headed to his desk, attempting not to look at anyone, no eye contact. Once his desk came into view, he stopped, pausing at the edge of it.

The once smooth wooden surface was now coated in scratches and scrawls. He could feel his heart pulsing in his chest, the rush of blood to his ears effectively deafening him, yet he could hear it. The laughter and jeers of his vicious classmates. The same sentiments spilling from their sharpened smirks as was carved into his desk.

‘Murderer’

‘Your fault’

‘You did this’

‘Killer’

‘Blackened’

A whole hoard of nonsensical evil maliciously etched into the wood, a permanent fixture for all to see. No wonder they were staring. No wonder they were laughing. They all thought the same.

Amami was gone. It was all his fault.

He sat in his chair in silence, covering as much of the desk as possible with his books and stationary. No matter what he did, something would peep out. No matter how much he hid it from view, it was still there. Hidden, but not erased. The class was quiet with him, the laughter he could make out before gone as if it never existed. Maybe there had never been any laughing. It didn’t matter. They were enjoying it all the same.

 

The only time he could isolate himself was at lunch, finding a quiet spot devoid of other students, who were doubtlessly gathered with their precious friends excitedly discussing what had happened that morning. He was almost annoyed that he hadn’t overheard anyone explaining what was going on. He felt like he was the most out of the loop, even though he was involved.

He thought about finding Amami’s group of friends. They were bound to know all the up to date rumours going around, they might even know who had attacked his desk. He didn’t go to find them though. Without Amami he could tell they had a distaste for him, that alongside the rumours that were going around painting him as a ‘murder’ apparently, really made him not want to see them. He didn’t need to see their hateful sneers as well, he was getting enough of those. Amami really was beloved among the other students. And rightly so, he supposed. When he had the opportunity, he clung to Amami too. Someone who wasn’t happy to just be another bloodthirsty, violence fuelled lay about. They were rare now it seemed, really rare. The killing games were quite the phenomenon.

 

He was eternally grateful when the final bell shrieked through the school. He had never been more pleased to leave school for the weekend. He was just glad to not have to stare at his defiled desk for another moment. Admittedly, being at Amami’s home didn’t feel much better at the moment. At least he could be alone.

Or so he’d hoped. As he left the school, it seemed the world had a different plan for him. Amami’s little gang of friends were hanging around just outside of the school gates, waiting. He could only assume that the person they were waiting for was him. For what felt like the hundredth time today, he focused his eyes downwards, clutching his bag tightly until his knuckles were white out of anticipation. He pressed onwards. He passed through the gates, but as he rounded the corner a thick, burly arm jutted out in front of him, visible even facing downwards, halting his movement. Reluctantly he lifted his head, regarding them with perplexity. He could tell the others were moving to surround him without even looking around, he could almost feel their presence, like their intentions were palpable. The big guy spoke first.

“What did you do?” he spat the words through his clenched jaw. His muscles looked tense with a rage Ouma didn’t understand. He ran his eyes across the faces of the others, each sharing expressions of anger and unadulterated hatred. He honestly did not know what he had done. He shook his head weakly.

“I-I don’t, I don’t,” he stuttered uselessly, his trembling lips failing to let anything comprehensible past. One of the boys behind him seized both of his arms, grasping his upper arms tightly. Ouma didn’t hear him move, the sudden grip surprising and painful. He whipped his head around, the one that grabbed him wasn’t of such an impressive build, the strength in his hands all the more surprising. He was the one with short blond hair sticking out messily at all angles, he thought a lot of himself but really was very ordinary looking, dyed hair or not. The ditzy girl stepped forward, his head instantly snapping to her at the sight of movement. She looked on the verge of tears, her hands lost in her pigtails.

“He was happy before you!” She all but screamed, her high-pitched voice far too close and far too loud. “Now he’s,” she gasped, the air whistling past her teeth, “you must have made him! It’s all your fault!” Her words were confusing, and all too familiar. He didn’t have time to deliberate on them for too long though, before a fist was plunged into his gut. His body rocked, knees almost giving way if it wasn’t for the boy behind him holding him up. Coughs and wheezes ripped through his throat. He could at least be glad it wasn’t the biggest one. The one that punched him was usually so energetic and uncaring, cracking jokes at any given moment, now completely changed.

For a moment, as his bleary eyes caught sight of the one that had punched him and began to refocus, he envisioned wriggling free of the grip on his arms and swinging his bag as hard as he could into the side of his head. He would drop immediately, almost like a ragdoll forming a heap on the floor. The others would back off, nothing but cowards once their prey began to cause them problems. But that was just a fantasy. He tried to shake the hands off of him, but to no avail, if anything those hands held him in place harder than before, he could practically feel the skin bruising beneath those fingers. The one that had punched stepped closer to him, both hands grasping the collar of his uniform, yanking his body upwards.

“What the hell did you do?” he shouted in Ouma’s face, pale eyes wide and reddened. He stared up, breathless, desperate for information himself.

“I-I don’t,” he tried again, attempting to piece together full words, his body quaking more than before from the impact.

“Don’t fucking say you don’t know!” he yelled again, releasing his hold of Ouma’s clothing to draw back a fist. Ouma braced himself, the hit landing more to the side than the last one, still managing to wind him, his legs still trying to cave under him. He gasped, swallowing down the spit that gathered in his mouth, keeping a tight hold of his bag. He was glad that he had managed to do that at least.

 

A hefty hand patted the aggressive boy on the shoulder, signalling him to move aside. Everything darkened, a shadow cast over him from this behemoth. Ouma just had to hope that size was all he had, maybe he looked impressive but was actually super weak. He pulled back his arm, preparing to strike, when a voice called out that Ouma did not expect to hear.

“Oi,” a gruff voice caught the attention of the group easily, “the hell are you guys doing?” Ouma managed to catch a glimpse of the owner of the voice in a gap between his assailants. Kaito Momota. He hopped off of his moped, his ridiculously styled hair had clearly never even seen a helmet before. He left his vehicle pulled up by the group.

“What’s your problem?” One of the girls behind him snapped, her voice deeper than most of the other girls’ voices, she prized herself on being mature for her age.

“A bunch of people crowding one kid, yeah I got a problem,” he hissed, teeth bared. “Only a bunch of wimps would need this many people for a shrimp like him.” He barged his way into the circle they had formed, shoving one of the guys that had not yet spoken on his way.

The group began to back off, the hold on his arms even began to ease off. They seemed to hum between themselves, sharing whispers that he couldn’t make out. Momota cracked his knuckles loudly, body broad and puffed out.

“Want to prove you’re not a bunch of pussies?” he growled, a grin across his face and life in his eyes. He burned with an aura of pride and excitement. He was in this for the fight. Amami’s friends were not, evidently. Ouma was released, the group dispersing quickly, clearly wanting nothing to do with Momota. Probably a smart choice. A bunch of weird things had happened to him because he had been involved with Momota, after all.

“Why are you here?” Ouma finally asked, his voice hoarse from his sharp, ragged breathing. Momota seemed to deflate, seemingly disappointed by the others. He turned and clapped a strong hand against Ouma’s back, sending him a couple of steps ahead.

“Get on,” was all the explanation he gave, a motion of his head to point towards the moped.

“Seriously?” he complained, walking towards the bike all the same. It must have been what he gave Saihara a ride on when he’d been ambushed near his house. He’d imagined a car at that time, but it made a lot more sense for it to be a scooter. Momota might be a rebel, but laws are laws, he guessed. He let Momota get on first, climbing onto it second behind the bigger boy. It was clunky to sit on with a briefcase, but he was sure he wouldn’t be on it for long. He refused to put an arm around Momota for balance, instead using his free hand to hold onto the back of the bike, his legs tightly squeezing against the sides. He couldn’t avoid his knees touching Momota, and instead opted to ignore it. As they started moving, he suppressed a laugh, there certainly weren’t any helmets in sight.

 

Unsurprisingly, he was dropped off at an apartment complex he recognised. Saihara’s. It _was_ Friday, what else did he have to do anyway?

“Did he set you up to this?” Ouma asked Momota, who hadn’t gotten off his bike.

“Sure did,” he replied shortly, the engine starting up with an unnecessary roar as he sped away. Well, as much as he could on the scooter. No small talk then. He remembered where Saihara’s apartment was. He was tired.

He only needed to knock on the door twice, weak knocks lacking any power at that, before it was opened, and Saihara was standing before him. His smile was fixed in place, and being shorter than Saihara he could see the alertness in his eyes under the brim of his hat. He’d been waiting.

“Come in,” he breathed heavily, grabbing at Ouma’s wrist and pulling him through the boundary of the door. He quickly set down his bag and removed his shoes before heading into the living room. Nothing had changed. Everything was still sickeningly familiar.

“What’s all this about?” he didn’t sit down. He was a little surprised by his own firmness as he voiced his question. His body ached. He wanted to sleep and never move again, never have to see anyone ever again. He’d had enough. Saihara merely blinked up at him, false cluelessness across his face.

“What’s what about?” he asked back innocently, Ouma had to stifle his scoff. Saihara knew full well what he was talking about, that childlike expression was unbefitting to his disgusting being.

“Getting Momota to bring me here,” he hissed, if he wanted more information, he could have it. “You got him to bring me here from school. What if I wasn’t there then? Would you have had him patrol the streets on his little scooter until he found me?” the words started pouring from his mouth before he could think them through, or stop them, but he didn’t regret a single one. He deserved to be angry. Everyone else got to vent their frustrations constantly, why didn’t he? He had more reason to be furious than any of them. Saihara seemed a little taken back by his outburst at first, but then looked almost pleased. The smile slid back onto his face as he sat forward on the sofa.

“So, you were still at school?” Ouma rolled his eyes. Saihara was trying to be a detective _now_ of all times. “You were being held up, right?” He seemed excited at the prospect of something having happened. His ‘deductions’ were probably lining up. Hooray for him.

“Why did you get Momota to bring me here?” He snapped, repeated his earlier question. Saihara wasn’t going to escape, he was going to get the answer from him. His heart raced in response to his own actions, adrenaline must have still been coursing through him from the confrontation earlier. Speaking up for himself, he wasn’t even tripping over his words. Maybe having not been in contact with his stalker for a while had dampened his fear of the other boy. He knew being around Amami had been good for him.

“Because you were going to be held up at school,” Saihara explained as if it were obvious. Ouma gritted his teeth, Saihara knew something. He knew something, but he wasn’t going to tell him that easily. “Aren’t you glad he did?” Saihara switched the question, beaming up at him. Ouma crossed his arms in front of him, hands tightening into the fabric of his sleeves. Of course he was glad to be pulled from that situation, but that just led him to this situation. He knew Saihara was dangerous, but he had no clue how dangerous that group could be.   

“No,” he lied out of spite, looking away from whatever face Saihara made. He dragged his feet over to the sofa and sat himself down next to the other, keeping as much distance between them on the tight loveseat as possible. It felt closer than ever.

 

“The new season is starting today,” Saihara broke the silence that had formed between them after getting some drinks and snacks for the table in front of them.

“Mm, season 52, right?” Ouma replied flatly, leaning against the arm of the sofa. He vaguely caught enthusiastic nodding out of the corner of his eye. “How come they released the cast so late? Usually it’s released way earlier,” he made conversation by echoing the statements he’d read on the forum before.

“Have you looked at the new cast?” Saihara perked up, regarding him with those wide, questioning eyes again. Gross.

“No.” Saihara returned to opening the various snacks and drinks.

“I read that they wanted to gather the cast as late as possible so that they would be more frantic when the game started. So that they wouldn’t have any deep-set memories of the venue or what was happening. It’s happened a few times that even after a contestants’ memory has been altered, they still remembered bits about Team Danganronpa and staying in the area. Sometimes they’ve even remembered the layout of the set. There are some things they just can’t completely overwrite, and they can’t overwrite something they don’t expect, like retaining a really solid memory of the floorplan.” Ouma watched Saihara rant, face lit up, words bubbling against his lips. He could only really nod along with him. He’d read certain things about Team Danganronpa’s memory changing limitations before, he had to admit it was actually kind of interesting, and linked a few things in other seasons together. A big one was peoples’ relationships. In the last season there had been a brother and sister, in all likelihood they were actually blood relatives before the game as well. Strong memories and emotions like that couldn’t be removed, so often the backstory of the characters was knitted together with their real memories as well.

“Is it on at the same time as last season?” he asked, only to keep up conversation.

“Yeah, it’s being shown the same way. Though, apparently next season they want to try filming it in a different way. I hope it’s a livestream like they suggested before, can you imagine being able to watch Danganronpa at any time in the day? You wouldn’t miss anything. You could be the first to see something huge,” he pawed at his own tie, catching a finger in the knot and loosening it. All that anticipation must have been getting him hot, Ouma bitterly chewed the inside of his cheek. Still as repulsive as ever.

“Sounds difficult to manage,” he huffed back, uninterested. Saihara quickly snatched up the remote and flicked through to the right channel.

“It’s about to start,” his hold on the controller trembled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	34. Limelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the camera panned over the students, time seemed to freeze. Ouma felt like he was going to collapse from how quickly his breath left him.

The screen flicked to life, an advert mid-way through playing blared through the room. Saihara urgently tapped the volume down to a reasonable level with an apologetic look. Ouma said nothing, shifting his position from leaning his head on his hand to sitting back on the sofa. He could guess why the TV had been turned up so much, he bet at that volume it probably sounded like the screams were happening right there in the same room. Saihara truly lead a worthless existence.

The Danganronpa opening started once the advert was finished, the timing almost impeccable on Saihara’s part. The opening was the same as the last season, it changed every 10 episodes, just like the rules. It always showed prominent moments from the original series that started the whole Danganronpa franchise, then various fan favourite moments from previous seasons mashed together to the classic Danganronpa theme song. Most people would think that keeping the opening so similar each time, and even the exact same for so long would bore people, but instead it was almost a reminder of what was about to be shown. The opening alone gave the audience a particular feeling of anticipation, one that might not be captured in quite the same way if it was changed.

The protagonist of this season was a boy, as they tended to be. He remembered reading once that the male to female protagonist ratio was something like 30:70. He sported the trademark ahoge sprouting from his blond hair. He had woken to find himself handcuffed to a school desk that was bolted to the floor. This one started off with an escape room style puzzle, that was kind of interesting. The boy struggled, swore loudly and attempted to force himself free before giving up and actually reading the text on the desk which guided him to begin the puzzle. The writing on the desk coupled with the little cutesy Monokuma doodle reminded him of his own scratched up desk. The initial test was solved easily, a simple introduction to the school, then a sliding puzzle inside the desk to free the key. The boy was head strong, a punkish attitude to match his dyed hair. At least the protagonist would have some personality, they were usually mild-mannered and plain so that the viewer could project themselves onto the main character.

 

Having freed himself from the desk, he headed to gymnasium as suggested on the inside of the desk lid. As expected, 15 other students were already waiting in the gym for an explanation. As the camera panned over the students, time seemed to freeze. Ouma felt like he was going to collapse from how quickly his breath left him. The ostentatious head of olive-green hair caught his complete focus. In that glimpse he wore a stern expression, arms folded across his body. The world swirled around him. It wasn’t right.

The camera continued to shift and move, scanning over the students and switching to Monokuma as he gave an introductory spiel. Ouma’s eyes remained locked on the boy with green hair. The first time he was able to get a good look at him was once the students began to leave the gym, grumbling and fretting over their situation. That boy and the protagonist stayed behind, the blond trapped in the grip of fear and trepidation, a desperate expression across his face that painted the words ‘this can’t be happening’ clearly for all to see.

“Hey,” a deep, smooth voice called out to the panicking boy. “It’ll be alright,” he comforted lazily, the camera tilting with the gaze of the protagonist to bring him into full view. He looked scruffy. He wore a creased white shirt pulled partially open at the top with a loosened striped tie. A baggy brown cardigan was thrown on top, the sleeves messily rolled up.

“What do you mean it’ll be alright? This whole situation is fucked, of course it won’t be alright!” the worked-up boy yelled back, hands squeezed into fists. He sounded like he was on the brink of tears, but wasn’t the kind of person to show it.

Ouma tried to reason with himself. It couldn’t possibly be right. He shouldn’t be on Danganronpa, he wouldn’t go on Danganronpa. Yet that face and voice matched up so perfectly.

“Whoa, calm down there. Look, trust me and trust everyone else, there’s not going to be a killing game just because some bear told us there would be. There was a way in, so there will definitely be a way out.”

That seemed to relax the other slightly, his tense, slightly shaking shoulders dipped down a little. There was an infectious laxity in his voice. His next words, however, were damning.

“We haven’t even introduced ourselves yet, I’m Rantaro Amami, the Ultimate Adventurer, nice to meet you.”

 

A series of incoherent sounds escaped Ouma’s open mouth, he wanted to say something like what or how, but it all got jumbled up in the heat of the moment. He’d unconsciously inched his way to the edge of his seat, hunching forwards, his thumb nail sore from chewing as his eyes never swayed from the screen. He didn’t care what anyone else had to say, his attention remained fixated on _him_. Amami. His loving boyfriend. His boyfriend who was on his way to certain death. By choice. Things started making sense, slowly, but they pieced together so perfectly. The reason why everyone was looking at him, the whispering, the pointing, the accusations scraped into the wood of his desk, the violence, everything. Everyone knew. The cast had been released at midnight so _everyone knew except him_. The information stung in his brain as it wormed its way around all those little pieces that had been confusing him up until now.

‘He was so happy’, either they think that Amami joined Danganronpa as a way to die because being around Ouma all the time made him unhappy, or they believed Ouma had been the one to nominate him. _Nominate_. The idea still made him sick to his stomach, but it wouldn’t be strange to think. Amami had no interest in Danganronpa, in fact he hated it, he would never apply to be on that show. Ouma did have an interest in Danganronpa, an interest he wore on his phone which had seen more use around school while he was messaging Saihara. People had certainly seen the Monokuma charm, so it seemed obvious what had happened. Amami had been nominated into Danganronpa by Ouma. It made him angry, a fury that heated his skin and furrowed his brow. They were all idiots if they really thought that. He clearly adored Amami, especially around all of them, so why would he do that? They were so stupid, each and every one of them!

A movement in his seating interrupted his thoughts, his unblinking, burning eyes finally peeling away from the TV. Saihara was staring at him, he wondered how long he’d been looking at him for. He didn’t look surprised, why would he be? He knew too, just like everyone else. Was that why he had Momota bring him here? To rub his face in it?

“Amami,” Saihara began, seeming to select his words carefully. “He, he was your boyfriend, right?” his voice was soft and quiet, like it was a secret. Ouma scoffed. As if Saihara wasn’t fully aware.

“He is my boyfriend,” he corrected sharply. Amami wasn’t dead yet, even though he was on a path set for it. He felt Saihara shuffle closer to him. The arm of the sofa blocked him from being able to distance their bodies.

 

He decided the Amami on the television looked weird. He still spoke with his usual animated hand gestures, but without his hands being adorned in his jewellery the motions just looked strange. His mannerisms and the things he said were all strikingly familiar. It drove him to wonder how much Team Danganronpa could alter peoples’ personalities. Maybe the people that went on the show really were like that beforehand. Even his title didn’t seem so out of place, the Ultimate Adventurer. It tied in with the things he liked, documentaries about far away lands and exotic creatures, travelling with his father, even just walking around the park. Had he been dreaming of this title all that time?

No, it didn’t make sense. Amami wouldn’t go on Danganronpa. He hated it. He hated that Akamatsu wanted to go on it. He remembered the conversation they’d had once on the train where he had gotten himself very upset over the prospect of his step sister dying on some TV show. There was no way he would put his own family through that. So then, what had happened?

Someone must have nominated him. To have such a suited talent that person must have known him. Maybe one of his so called ‘friends’ had been jealous of him to the point of putting him in a killing game? Maybe it had been Akamatsu in order to get back at him for whatever it was she resented him for? That made the most sense, it definitely felt the most likely.

He dropped his chewed hand from his lips to his leg, the boy next to him wasting no time in sliding his own hand on top, tucking his slender fingers between Ouma’s. He didn’t have the energy in him to fight the action. Everything was too much.

“This is amazing,” Saihara sighed next to him, the words catching Ouma’s attention.

“Amazing?” he listlessly repeated, shifting his attention slightly to Saihara, still keeping the screen in view.

“The Ultimate Adventurer held this hand,” he breathed loudly, “I’m probably the first person to touch it like this since he did.” He had a dreamy look about it. Ouma’s gut twisted. It was more like a nightmare. Now _that_ was quite a motive.

Was it possible that Saihara was the one to nominate Amami? He would know enough about him to create a character with a title fitting his real-life interests, even a backstory that tied together with his real past. He would know everything about him via Akamatsu and any watching or snooping he did of them. But by putting Amami on the show, it meant that he would be able to get access to Ouma again since he would be alone. By putting his boyfriend on the show, it was like Saihara got his own living piece of Danganronpa merchandise. _It was sick_.

 

He kept his mouth shut despite his screaming head. He had no idea what to say. Should he ask? Should he accuse? Should he scream? Cry? Fight? So many scenarios played out mentally, but none of them would make him feel any better. The situation was uncurable. He stayed silent, letting Saihara enjoy the feel of his hand tightly nestled under the other’s. His hold was unrelenting, his thumb rubbed circles into his skin, the clamminess of his hand soaked into the top of his own.

It was all going Saihara’s way, wasn’t it?

Eventually the first episode drew to a close in the same way episode 1 always did, with a body discovery. Ouma hadn’t paid much attention to the other students, so he wasn’t particularly affected by the bloodied body splayed on the ground for all to see. Stab wounds, a first victim classic. There was an obvious suspicious person, someone who had been particularly anxious about wanting to escape. The Ultimate ??? this time around was much more manic than they usually were. The memory loss terrified her, so she had been incredibly suspicious. Ouma could already predict that the first half of the trial would all lead up to her being the culprit, and then a piece of evidence would contradict that and send them all off in another direction. The episode ended on the students’ reaction to finding one of their peers dead, the Ultimate ??? with her hand clasped around her mouth, the body reflected in her glasses. Ouma’s eyes were more drawn towards Amami’s reaction. He stood there with his eyes open wide, frozen in place with shock like he truly couldn’t believe that someone had gone through with a murder. His irises shook in horror, pinpoint pupils locked onto the body in front of them.

Then it was gone. The ending credits played. A sense of emptiness swelled within him. Amami really wasn’t here anymore. Instead he was _there_ , on that show. No longer the person he knew, no longer the wonderous, pure boy that had saved him from his own miserable existence. Now he was the ‘Ultimate Adventurer’, just another character on Danganronpa set to die with the rest of them. All Ouma could now was wish him a peaceful death. Would Amami be killed? Why? Why would his killer pick him? Would Amami kill? Was he even capable of that? Was this new Amami capable of that? As if sensing his thought process, Saihara stirred beside him.

“What’s it like?” he leaned in close to Ouma, a hand still gripping his.

“What’s, what’s what like?” he uncertainly asked, uncomfortable with the closeness but unable to get any further away.

“Seeing someone you were close to on Danganronpa,” he clarified in a harsh whisper, “what’s it like?” Ouma squirmed, Saihara’s body pressing up against his with more and more force. The question itself was like a slap in the face. He pulled his hand out of Saihara’s, attempting to shrug the other boy away from him.

“Horrible,” he hissed through in his teeth.

The gravity of the situation was beginning to hit after hearing it said aloud like that. Said aloud by the person who put Amami on that show. Saihara didn’t back away, his body still hot against his own trapped one. He shoved the other with his arm, knocking him away and finally giving himself some space to breathe. He leapt up from his seat before he could be pinned again. Saihara gave him a strange look, something questioning, maybe hurt. Like he had any right to feel hurt.

“I-I’m going,” he shakily decided, briskly walking towards the door without giving Saihara another look. He heard him get up from his seat, his footsteps behind him.

“I’ll message you later,” Saihara’s voice was kind of sombre, almost sympathetic. Ouma threw on his shoes and snatched his bag up. He wasn’t brave enough to leave without giving some sort of affirmation. He nodded as if to give permission for him to message, and left without another word.

 

It had been a while since he’d last had to walk home so late by himself. He didn’t feel as uncomfortable or unsafe as he probably should have. Maybe it was because he had just seen Momota and Saihara, his bully and stalker, and knew neither would need to pursue him that night. But he had more to be afraid of than just them, there were others who had it in for him now. Pretty much everyone at school, it felt like. Maybe he wasn’t concerned because he was just feeling so _done_ with today. So much crap had happened, none of it had been his fault, and yet he was blamed for everything. And now his stalker was going to be even more clingy because he’d become a piece of living merchandise. Everything sucked.

He was glad to be home, alone at last. He’d wanted nothing more than to be by himself since school had started that morning. Now that he was alone though, it felt, well, lonely. No matter how much Amami had insisted it was their home, it was always Amami’s home to Ouma. Now more than ever. He only had a limited time left that he could stay there, and it wasn’t long. He knew he would have more time than just when the next payment was due. They would have to evict him and all sorts, probably get a court involved. That was how he thought they did things at least. He wasn’t 100% sure, but he was pretty sure he’d heard that before. People missed payments all the time and weren’t immediately slung out into the street. It sounded like a lot of trouble and hassle though. And something that wouldn’t look good on him, a high school boy being evicted from an apartment. From someone else’s apartment. What if the housing people made him go back home? He had family on record, after all. The thought made him dizzy. If he went back home now, he wasn’t sure if they would kill him, or just make him wish they had.

His phone buzzed loudly against the table as he was readying himself for bed. It was from Saihara, of course. He did say he would message.

“Today was great, I really want to talk more. Meet me tomorrow? My treat.” Ouma pinched the inside corner of his mouth between his teeth as he read and re-read. ‘Great’ wasn’t the word Ouma would use to describe today. ‘Great’ was also not the word he would use on someone else who had just found out that someone important to them had just received a death sentence.

And talking, what did Saihara want to talk about? Danganronpa probably, it was all his one-track mind cared about. Would it just be the two of them? He wondered if Akamatsu knew. How was she feeling right now? Was she happy? He was gone now, and she didn’t like him so she was probably thrilled. Saihara would likely know. He was tempted to ask over text, but decided against it. Instead he agreed to meet up, and arranged a time and place. He could just ask Saihara tomorrow how Akamatsu was doing. He could ask Saihara straight out about Amami’s nomination too. There was so much he needed to know, but he had no idea how to go about asking, so maybe straight up in a public place would be the best. Either way, he couldn’t go any longer without knowing.

Yes, he was sure Saihara had a reason to want to talk to him, but Ouma also had plenty of things to talk to Saihara about as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	35. Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amami was his. They were together. Happily. Amami had been crazy about him. He searched through the posts that used the keyword ‘Amami’, muscles tensing as he scrolled through each appreciation thread.

Ouma waited at the meeting point he had arranged with Saihara the day before. He stood alone, rocking on his toes, knowing full well that he was way too early. Part of him expected Saihara to already be there, camping out the site, waiting for him. Even Saihara had better things to do he guessed. He told himself that he was just antsy about wanting to talk to Saihara, anxious about how he was going to get the information he needed out of the other boy, but it wasn’t the whole truth. He knew that he didn’t like being in Amami’s house by himself, but he refused to let that be the only reason he had left an hour and a half early.

With his extra time, he decided to mess with his phone. He headed to the forums to see what people were saying about episode 1 of season 52. More specifically, what people were saying about Amami. He saw a decent amount of fuss over him, but it all stemmed from his appearance. He seemed to have a lot of favour with the fans already because of his calm demeaner and attractive face. They didn’t know him enough yet to have particularly strong opinions about any other facet of him. It annoyed Ouma anyway. He searched through the posts that used the keyword ‘Amami’, muscles tensing as he scrolled through each appreciation thread. Screenshots of the episode of characters looking particularly cute, photoshopping sparkles and flower crowns onto them, it sickened him. Hoards swooning over the people they would watch die. And they know it. They know those characters aren’t getting out, yet they gush about how in love with the new cast they are, how much they wish they really knew certain characters. They act like they care, but they’re lying.

Amami was his. They were together. Happily. Amami had been crazy about him, he had to have been to have done so much for him. To let him live in his house and do everything for him without expecting anything in return. Amami even wanted to be with him first. But these people. They posted about the things they wanted to do to him, wrote disgusting fantasies starring him, made pictures of him next to other people. They had no right, Amami was _his_.

 

Eventually his awareness returned from the overwhelming red fury that had blurred the world around him. He felt like he’d looked at every post he could find pertaining to Amami, each and every one having been viler than the last. His eyes flicked to the time in the corner of his screen and realised with shock that it was only 10 minutes before the time they had agreed to meet at. He lifted his gaze away from the screen, his eyes unfocused from having been fixated on the small device for so long.

The sound that tore from his throat was something in between a shouting sound and the noise of him choking on his own tongue, his body almost toppling backwards. The person in front of him jolted as well, taking a step back in surprise. Ouma swore under his breath, attempting to let his racing heart slow.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growled, a hand against his chest, his glare set on Saihara. Looking away from his phone only to meet his blank, stale stare was startling, to say the least.

“Y-you looked really absorbed in whatever you were doing,” Saihara stuttered back defensively, stepping forwards again, closer to Ouma.

“Don’t just stare at people like that, God,” he continued to hiss, irate. He knew Saihara was weird, it shouldn’t be surprising to him anymore that he thinks stuff like that is acceptable, but he was still recovering from his fright. He tried to gather himself, going off on Saihara now wasn’t conducive to getting his answers. “How long were you even there for?” he grumbled, standing up straighter and pocketing his phone.

“Just a few minutes,” Saihara responded, not meeting his eyes, his bottom lip glistening in the daylight, even under the brim of his hat.

Ouma didn’t believe him for a second. The idea that Saihara was just standing directly in front of him, just _staring_ , sent shudders down his spine. How much watching had he done before he had come over to him on top of that? He certainly was a pro stalker. He decided it wasn’t worth picking Saihara up on it, and instead started walking in the direction of the café they agreed to go to for lunch. Saihara’s treat.

“Were you looking at Danganronpa stuff?” Saihara asked quietly, as if afraid that Ouma would lash out at him for asking. A part of him did want to. A large part of him. Instead he just gave a hum in positive response to his question. Saihara was being a bit timid he noted, kind of jumpy. He must have been worked up over whatever it was that he wanted to talk about.  

“Amami’s been quite,” he paused, clicking his tongue, “well received,” he bitterly stated.

“He’s high on all the popularity charts I’ve seen,” Saihara leapt in, “though we haven’t seen much of his personality yet.” Ouma pulled at the skin on his lip, clutching the phone in his pocket with one hand. He’d thought something similar himself, but actually hearing that phrase was something else entirely. ‘We haven’t seen much of his personality yet’. So far, he seemed like the same sweet, encouraging, comforting Amami he knew, but this was Danganronpa. There was going to be more to him. The tension that had begun to lift from his body returned in full force. What kind of person would he be? Bile burned at the back of his throat as the possibilities flooded his mind, all those moments when a character shows their ‘true colours’, what would be his? 

 

The rest of their conversation was stiff, neither wanting to broach the topics that they intended to talk about early in case the other bailed. That was Ouma’s plan at least. Lock Saihara in by settling down in the café and ordering. He was just thankful that Saihara wasn’t drooling all over him like he had been the night before. Maybe he had chilled out a bit, or maybe he was just bottling it up and was set to explode later on. The things Saihara had said the night before still creeped him out. The way he had leaned in, wanting to know exactly what it felt like for Ouma to see Amami on that screen, on that show. The way he had been caressing his hand as if it had traces of Amami on it that Saihara could take from him through touch. It was weird, but the franchise accommodated those freaks. They would auction off clothes that the characters had worn, and people would buy it without the intention of wearing them. Saihara was definitely the kind of person that would buy that kind of stuff and just sniff it, or keep it in his bed, something depraved like that.

They headed inside the café without pausing for long to take in the outside of the building. It was a pretty plain building. The appeal of it to them was that it wasn’t far away from the station, and it apparently had good reviews online. They were seated right away, menus pushed into their hands. Ouma’s eyes swept across the laminated sheet, taking in the names and images of their various dishes. Though, strangely, no matter how much he looked at the options, or how good they actually seemed to be, nothing stirred his appetite despite the pinching pains of his hungry stomach. He hadn’t eaten dinner on Friday after seeing Saihara, he just hadn’t been hungry when he got back, and he hadn’t had breakfast that morning. He’d been nervous about the meeting, plus he wanted to make the most of the lunch out of Saihara’s pocket. But now it was like he had completely lost the desire to eat.

They were asked by the waitress that had sat them down if they were ready to order shortly after having been handed the menu. Saihara nodded, but hesitated immediately. He clearly hadn’t actually made his mind up. Ouma just ordered a fancy looking tea drink, a mixture of elderflower and gooseberries, a delicate and tart combination. Saihara had looked at him over the menu, checking that the drink was really all he wanted, but he was sure. They could always order more later if they wanted anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal. Saihara ordered a coffee and one of the set meals. Ouma had only vaguely glanced over them, having been more interested in other options decorated with images that would otherwise certainly tempt him.

Tension washed over the pair once the waitress left to get their orders. They knew the drinks wouldn’t take long, and that they both had something to say, yet neither wanted to speak first. It was frustrating. Ouma hadn’t come out to just sit awkwardly and make small talk with Saihara. He had a reason for this, but he still couldn’t gather the courage to say what he really wanted to say. He chewed his lip and fidgeted, his hands taking various, uncomfortable positions on the table. Saihara just sat opposite him, his back straight, his eyes shifting, taking in something that was behind Ouma, occasionally catching his own gaze in return. It was annoying. Ouma finally shuffled himself to sit more upright in his seat and managed to summon his voice.

 

“So, you wanted to talk about something, right?” he asked as offhandedly as he could, as if his brain hadn’t been racing with all the things he could’ve said.

“O-oh, yeah,” Saihara seemed like he’d been surprised by the question, as if they would have just sat there in a weird, heavy silence for the rest of the afternoon. “Uh, it’s about, um, Danganronpa,” he approached the sentence as if he were about to say something incredibly rude, but instead the statement was completely as Ouma had expected. It wasn’t unusual for Saihara to talk about Danganronpa, it was all that boy lived for, so why had he said it like that?

“Right,” Ouma droned the word the slowly, urging for more information. Saihara looked relieved for a moment. Did he think that Ouma was going to be offended by just the mention of Danganronpa now? If he was, he’d be in a lot of trouble in this violence obsessed world. He couldn’t remember the last time he went a day without hearing or seeing the word. He didn’t help himself of course, it was a past time of his as well. But it wasn’t the same, he didn’t enjoy it in the same way the rest of the world did. He was sure.

“It’s exciting,” Saihara’s mouth twitched upwards, his whole posture changing. His arms extended forwards, elbows resting on the table, fingers intertwined with each other and his head perched atop his hands. It felt like he was suddenly a lot closer. Ouma let his hands ball up around the slightly too long sleeves of his top. He didn’t back down, letting his eyelids fall shut, pausing and slowly lifting as if he didn’t follow.

“Is it?” he drawled back, tilting his own head slightly in question, “the season has only just started, I suppose anything could happen.” He knew exactly what Saihara meant, but he’d play this game to make Saihara say it. He wanted to hear exactly what he was after from his own lips. Saihara’s face twitched with challenge, his eyes glinting something almost dangerous. He knew what Ouma was doing.

Suddenly the appearance of someone at the side of their table drew their attention, their drinks placed in front of each of them. Ouma removed his hands from the table to give her more space, though it was unneeded. Saihara didn’t move his arms.

“Your drinks,” she cheerfully stated as she placed them both, no idea of the intense atmosphere she had intruded on. They both mumbled their thanks, the girl grinning at them both and darting off to deal with other orders. The momentary distraction should have completely destroyed the mood between them, but Saihara’s constant staring stopped the tension from dissipating. His unchanged posture remained intimidating and somewhat aggressive while Ouma had recessed back into his chair, his own arms down.

 

“It is exciting,” Saihara pulled the conversation back on track, “to know someone actually on Danganronpa,” he shifted his body, brining himself closer to the table. “To know someone who was close to that person on Danganronpa,” he breathed, eyes locked on Ouma. Ouma tried to look away, but his gaze always came back, the incessant staring impossible to leave unchecked. It was like a spell. “Isn’t it exciting for you? Aren’t you excited to see if he survives? To see if he dies? And how?” the words tumbled from his mouth in a thrilled flurry, yet his face remained unsettlingly unchanged. Ouma finally managed to look away from Saihara’s face for more than a moment, instead attempting to focus on his translucent, pale green drink.

“Does it really matter?” the words left him like a sigh. “Whether he survives the game or not, he won’t ever come back.” The words stung to say aloud like that, but it was the truth, as much as he wished it wasn’t.

“Of course it matters!” Saihara dropped one hand to the table with a muted thud, making Ouma look up again. He shifted his head into the palm of one hand, using the one that had hit the table to drag his coffee closer. The steam rose and danced between them. “How do you think he would kill someone?” Ouma grabbed his own drink, the question burning in his ears. No, he would never kill someone. No way. But that was the Amami he knew, was the one on the TV really the same one? He clenched his eyes shut hard, attempting to drown out the painful crushing sensation in his chest.

“Why is he on the show?” Ouma ended up saying the words he was dying to know the answer to. It felt like everything had just risen to the surface, his voice louder than intended, far more accusatory than the question should have been.

“Hm?” Saihara seemed taken aback by his sudden force as well, lifting his head away from his hand. Ouma took a shaky breath, trying to desperately think of a way to phrase it. There wasn’t a good way.

“Does Akamatsu know he’s on the show?” he ended up deflecting despite his desire to know. He would get back to it, he promised himself. He took a sip of his drink, the slightly sour taste lingered on his tongue. Saihara seemed to relax into that question as well, not questioning his change of topic.

“She does, she saw him on the cast reveal,” he said simply, not giving more information than requested. He was playing Ouma’s own little game against him then?

“How is she taking it?” he pressed on, acting sympathetic towards her plight. Who would suffer more for seeing him on TV than his own family? Saihara looked to consider it for a moment, as if he hadn’t thought that she could have been struggling in any way before now.

“She’s fine with it I guess,” he answered nonchalantly, “she didn’t seem too surprised, so maybe she expected it.” Ouma felt his insides seethe, he could almost feel Saihara’s smirk on the other side of the table. Of course she would be fine with it if she had a part in it. He almost wanted to scream. His face hardened to disguise the unsteady deep breath he had to take to calm himself.

“Was it,” despite how much he tried to cement his resolve, his voice still came out weak and desperate, “you?” Saihara kept his eyes on Ouma, tilting his head just very slightly. “Was it you?” he repeated, his voice just as much a whimper as it had been before. “Did you nominate him?” His feelings were so all over the place, his body didn’t know what to do. He was tensed but shaking, his vision almost blurred with fury, but his chest aching with sorrow. It was all so confusing. It was too much. He needed to know. He needed the truth. He could almost see Saihara’s mind turning behind those sharp, eyelash obscured eyes. Ouma envied his poker face, if that’s what this was.

“Yes,” the word cut through Ouma’s ears like a shot. Immediately he wanted nothing more than to tear the boy opposite him limb from limb, but not here, no, no, no, he would take him somewhere no one could see them and rip him apart. He deserved nothing more than a lonely death as far detached from the stardom of a Danganronpa execution as possible. However, before he could act on the violent impulses that pumped through him, Saihara’s words continued. “I did try to nominate him. Akamatsu-san even got his dad’s signature for the form by pretending it was for something else, a permission slip for her school trip I think.” Those words threw Ouma off, nothing about Akamatsu’s trickery, but Saihara’s phrasing. ‘I did try’. Try?

“You,” the word scraped past his clenched teeth, “you tried?” His gazed was focussed on Saihara, never moving. His hands sat on his knees under the table, fists balling and releasing frantically as his mind whirled. Saihara nodded before taking a satisfying looking sip of his hot coffee. Ouma knew it was just to annoy him. It worked.

“Yes, we did try to nominate him. Turns out you can’t nominate someone that had already auditioned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> Sorry for the super late upload! I went out but still had a little bit more to do on it, but as long as it's up before I go to bed, then it's still Friday, right?!


	36. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma understood each of Saihara’s words, but together they meant nothing. “What?” Ouma dumbly questioned, the only word he could form voiced for Saihara to answer. He didn’t know what to ask, his mind twisting between various questions.

Ouma understood each of Saihara’s words, but together they meant nothing. He tried to break it down internally. Saihara and Akamatsu worked together to nominate Amami, he suspected and feared that was the case. As sick as that made him feel, it wasn’t the end. The nomination failed, that nomination is not the reason why Amami is on Danganronpa. Amami auditioned to be on the show, and so that negated the nomination attempt. He could put together the words over and over, it didn’t make any more sense to him. Amami actively hated Danganronpa, why would he ever audition? It made no sense!

“What?” Ouma dumbly questioned, the only word he could form voiced for Saihara to answer. He didn’t know what to ask, his mind twisting between asking things like ‘what do you mean he auditioned?’ and ‘why did you try to nominate him?’, instead just a single word escaping which summed up his mess of thoughts. Saihara seemed to take some sort of pleasure in his desperate grasping for understanding, his thin smirk stretching higher up one side of his face.

“We’d sent off the nomination form, then a week later I got a letter from Team Danganronpa informing me that my nominee had scheduled to audition and so my nomination couldn’t be taken,” he explained easily, no hint of a lie in his automatic speech.

“That,” Ouma barely managed to speak, the word leaving him hoarse and weak, “that can’t be right.” His voice was barely a whisper to his own ears, his head shaking side to side as if to refuse this information.

“We had a totally different title and everything planned for him,” Saihara continued as if he hadn’t heard Ouma’s whimper, “we went for the Ultimate Childminder, you know, because of how he is, but I suppose Ultimate Adventurer could be interesting too. He picked it out himself after all.”

“No!” Ouma snapped at the final dig in Saihara’s statement. Picked it out himself. Lies, it had to be. “He would never,” he hissed, gut twisting.

“But he did,” Saihara countered, deadpan as ever. Saying it like it was an undisputed fact.

“When?” Ouma continued to aggressively poke back at Saihara, demanding details. Evidence. Saihara wanted to be an Ultimate Detective, right? So, he knew how this went.

“I received the letter,” he halted, thinking, recalling. “The day before I saw you actually. With Akamatsu and Harukawa, in that little café,” he gave context as if Ouma wouldn’t have known when he meant. He knew Saihara knew better than that. “So, he must have had his audition booked for around then I guess. Oh!” Saihara shifted back on his seat, coffee in hands as the waitress appeared again with his food.

 

Ouma wracked his brain for anything that seemed out of place around that time. Just before he met with Akamatsu for the second time, or around then. Was there anything? There was the way Amami bit back at Akamatsu’s taunting just before they both walked out, that was unusual for him, but could that have been anything to do with Amami’s audition? What about the day before? It was a normal school day, wasn’t it?

Saihara thanked the waitress before she darted away again, that fake crowd-pleasing grin plastered across her face. The food looked good, rice and steamed fish along with various vegetable sides, but the last thing Ouma felt at that moment was hunger. Saihara’s cup thumped against the table as he placed it down carelessly, transfixed once again on Ouma.

“I know when it happened,” Saihara admitted, picking up his chopsticks absently, his focus on their conversation. Ouma glared back, could his story even be believed?

“When did it happen?” Ouma kept his voice low, the pleasant smells of the food wafting towards him.

“The same day I received the letter. I didn’t read it until later that night because I didn’t go straight home after school.” Ouma wanted to ask if he _ever_ went straight home after school, but he kept quiet. He knew the implication of Saihara’s words, he was watching them. “I saw you leave the school by yourself, so I got curious.” Realisation began to dawn on him, the day before he saw Akamatsu the second time was the same day he went home alone for the first time. The day he was given the key that Amami never took back.

“He was helping at the art club,” Ouma lifelessly chimed in, a hand raised to cover his fallen mouth.

“He didn’t stay in the school for very long, and when he came back out, he didn’t go home. He went somewhere else. I didn’t follow him the whole way, but when I came home and saw the letter, I wished I had. Team Danganronpa always hold their auditions in different, unknown locations so that they don’t get swamped with people that didn’t get invited to an audition. I wonder where they were this time? I could’ve probably met some staff or something, it would have been cool.” His retelling became another rant, his obsession knowing no bounds it seemed.

Ouma gritted his teeth together, the timing matched up. He could have helped move something in the art club like he had said, and then gone somewhere else. Why would just moving things around take an hour and a half? He was frustrated with everything, everyone. But he had no reason not to trust Amami. He had no reason to believe Amami would do this. It wasn’t like him!

“Why, why would he do that?” Ouma croaked the words, denial still filled him despite the way this story was falling together. A blind belief in Amami.

“Does it matter?” Saihara shot back, his words suddenly harsh. He shoved his food in his mouth as if giving Ouma time to think.

He knew that knowing Amami’s reasons, whether he auditioned voluntarily or not, wouldn’t change the outcome. The result is that Amami is on Danganronpa. Nothing changes that. So, what difference would knowing the full story make? He couldn’t help it, he needed to know. He needed some kind of closure. It was too sudden. Amami had taken him in and showed no signs that he was about to throw his life away, then bam! Ouma was alone in a house that he wouldn’t be able to stay in for long, and Amami was on the TV, set for death. Finding out whether he chose to be on that show or not made all the difference, because _why would he go on it?_ He just nodded, a sort of desperate shaking. Saihara continued to eat, so Ouma reached for his own drink to sip while he waited for the other to be done.

 

“Why do you think I even know why he would do this?” Saihara calmly raised the question, laying down the smooth, dark chopsticks, eyes locking back onto Ouma opposite him. Ouma bit his tongue. Initially he wanted to blurt out something simple, ‘you always know everything’, but it sounded too needy. Too complimentary. He certainly didn’t mean anything nice by it. He let his tongue click in his mouth as he tried to come up with a way to phrase what he wanted to get out. Saihara looked to notice this, his eyebrows lifting a little at the sound. Then, like a bolt of inspiration, Ouma remembered something very useful.

“You said before that you knew some kind of secret or something about him, right?” Saihara gave a slow nod, as if not seeing the connection. Ouma rolled his eyes, feeling control begin to tilt in his direction. He slid himself forward on his seat, placing an elbow on the table so he could gesture with one hand. “Well _that_ must have something to do with _this_ ,” he sounded out as if it was the most obvious statement in the world. Saihara’s expression turned lax, almost bored, as he lulled his head against his head.

“I guess,” he mumbled, as if suddenly disinterested. Ouma tightened his hands in annoyance.

“And that secret would be,” each word left his lips harsh and firm. This had taken way too long to get out of him.

“It’s just,” he hummed, intense focus finally breaking from Ouma and searching around the café. “How he is.” That wasn’t the first time Saihara had said something like that. He’d said it earlier that conversation. ‘How he is’, what did that even mean?

 

Amami was caring, he would go out of his way to help people. He was overwhelmingly generous, stepping in and going above and beyond when Ouma needed him. He was comforting, just his presence was relaxing to be around, his calm attitude infectious. Amami was reliable, and did everything for Ouma and never got tired of day to day life. That’s how Amami was.

But at the same time, something else reared up. Something that had always been just slightly off. Amami was all of those things, he was an amazing person and everything that Ouma had needed, but there was _something_. When Ouma had seen his house for the first time it had been plain and lifeless, it hadn’t changed much in the time Ouma had been living there but he’d become used to it. Amami with all of his accessories and travelling just didn’t match up to an almost empty house. Then there was Akamatsu. There was nothing detestable about Amami, yet she held some sort of grudge against him. What had caused that? Were her feelings towards him justified? Or just born out of some petty sibling spite?

The more he thought, the more gaps he seemed to notice. There wasn’t really much to Amami other than the personality and life he exuded from his person. There was no substance. Ouma was happy enough for Amami to keep his history to himself since it allowed Ouma to do the same, not talking in great detail about their families was also ideal for him. But whenever he and Amami did talk, it was always about what had happened that day, or their plans for the future. Amami was never particularly passionate about anything other than his love for the exotic. Well, there was one other thing he guessed Amami had to be passionate about. Caring for him. Letting him live in his house and doing everything for him all the time. It was welcome at the time, but now that it was gone, he could only reminisce and wonder about it. Was Amami really happy to do all that? At the time he never doubted that Amami was content to take it all on.

“How he is,” Ouma echoed listlessly, unsure of anything. His whole world felt unstable. He wasn’t even sure if his words were just an empty statement or a question. After a short pause, Saihara seemed to perk up, sitting up straighter and removing his hands from the table. The actions caught Ouma’s attention.

 

“My turn,” he announced as if he were on some gameshow. Ouma didn’t quite follow.

“Your turn?” he slowly repeated, still trying to make sense of everything else they had already spoken about.

“I’ve been answering your questions, so you should answer mine,” so it was like a game? Though he claimed he’d been answering questions, Ouma didn’t really feel like he actually knew all that much more for it.  Regardless, he obliged the other.

“Okay, sure,” he agreed, holding his drink in his hands to use when he needed thinking time. A trick he would borrow from Harukawa. Thankfully now the food was finished, and Saihara had already said he would pay, there was nothing really tying him down to his seat. He could leave whenever he wanted.

“How differently was he acting in the first episode compared with how he was normally?” Ouma was surprised that the question was more than rushed garbled nonsense – the way Saihara usually got when talking about Danganronpa. Instead he almost sounded like some kind of journalist interviewing him. The coherency of it kind of made him more anxious.

“Um, he wasn’t really very different,” Ouma’s quiet voice stumbled over his words a little, “err, he wasn’t different at all really.” He hoped it would stay that way, but the show wouldn’t be exciting if everyone just acted, well, like normal people the whole time. He was sure there would be some motive at some point which would unveil something more sinister. Saihara nodded along with his words, the brim of his cap covering his face when it tilted downwards.

“This season everyone’s wearing clothes that resemble school uniforms, have you noticed anything else that they’ve changed about his appearance?” He stayed steady as he asked the question, the obviously rehearsed words sounding stiff, as if he was forcing himself to stay professional. It really was like an interview. Ouma hadn’t been expecting a conversation like this.

“No, I don’t think there’s really anything,” he thought back to all those pictures he saw, the self-indulgent grotesque scenarios people dreamed up and forced their favourite characters into, ignoring the fact that those characters were real people. Are real people. With thoughts and feelings and pasts and everything! He tried to shake the sudden burst of rage away, it wasn’t to do with Saihara. It didn’t matter right now. “Actually,” something came to mind as he tried to forget the images he saw, “Amami usually wore jewellery, but he’s not wearing any this season.”

“Ah, I wonder why,” Saihara perked up at that, but seemingly couldn’t come up with a reason as to why that would be the case.

The questions continued on like that, a flurry of inquisition about the episode that had aired and any differences between the Ultimate Adventurer character and the Rantaro Amami he knew. Surprisingly their conversation actually ended civilly, Ouma had fully expected to need to walk out, but didn’t. However, Saihara’s parting words continued to rattle around in his mind as he slowly strolled back to the home of a soon-to-be dead man.

‘See you on Friday.’

 

Once Ouma got back to the apartment, he wondered what to even do with the rest of the day. He didn’t feel like he had the energy to really do anything out of the ordinary, like he just wanted to collapse on a sofa or bed and do something mindless for the rest of the day. He supposed he had become used to just watching TV with Amami a lot, since that was something the older boy liked to do. There was little else to do in the desolate home.

So, he did exactly that. He opted to waste the day away watching the kind of shows that Amami used to like watching, lying alone on ‘his’ side of the sofa. It felt wrong. No matter how many he watched, it never got better. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He had nowhere to go once he couldn’t stay there anymore. Sure, he _had_ parents, but going back there was not an option. Everyone at school hated him to the point of assault, because apparently it was all his fault that Amami chose to go on Danganronpa. The fact that Amami _chose_ to go on that show was also still driving him insane. He hoped his mind would wander, but throughout the programmes it was still all he could focus on, the frustration hot at the front of his head.

It was wrong. It was all wrong. It was all just wrong and unfair and, and, how could this happen? How could any of this happen?

Ouma cradled his head in his hands, the credits of whatever show he was watching rolling in the background. He didn’t care. He’d never cared about those shows, why would he start caring now? The only thing he cared about at the moment was Amami, and the utter hell that was to result from his decision. If Amami cared about him so much, then why would he put him through this? Why give him so much, and make him so happy, if he was only going to rip it all away? How could he be so selfish?

Bitterness filled him like a flood, twisting his insides and setting his blood ablaze. He stood from the sofa; the movement impulsive. He just needed to do something. He didn’t know what. He was too agitated to just sit still.

He noticed the clock as he paced around the small building. It was getting late, about the kind of time he would be thinking about dinner. He started opening cupboards, cooking would give him something to do, but nothing appealed to him. It was strange. He could feel that he was hungry, and he knew he liked the food in the house, but nothing he saw called out to him enough to motivate him to actually make it. It was just like in the café. There were no repercussions to getting food, and he knew he was hungry, but he didn’t feel like eating any of it. He blamed the stress of his situation. It wasn’t unusual for people to have strange eating habits when under stress, or so he’d read.

He decided he would pick something and make it anyway, as a way to spend time. Even if he didn’t really feel like eating anything, he knew he should. He was sure Amami would be mad at him if he didn’t eat. The Amami he’d known, not the new one on TV. Or so he thought, at least. Thoughts plagued him now of the Amami he had known. After all, he kept saying to himself that the Amami he knew would never go on Danganronpa. However, in reality, the Amami he knew had voluntarily auditioned to go on Danganronpa, and had been successful.

Did he really know the Amami that took him in and cared for him?

Was Amami really as he remembered him being? Or was everything that Ouma saw in him just a lie?  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	37. Nostalgic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt like his whole week was just a build up for Friday. It was just like how his weeks used to feel, before he was ‘rescued’.

The following week was awful. Every moment of it. His mind was stuck on Danganronpa, there was nothing he could do to escape it. Even when alone, he tormented himself with it, searching through website after website, finding everything he could about what anyone thought of Amami. His need to see everything relating to him at all times was maddening, but he couldn’t stop. As he pulled out his phone, he would tell himself to stop, that enough was enough, but before he’d finished his train of thought, there would be a new post glaring up at him that he couldn’t click into fast enough.

School was unrelenting. The scratches in his desk were added to every day. He hadn’t caught the culprit, or culprits, but it was safe to assume that it was Amami’s group of friends. It was barely legible anymore, he wondered what they were going to do to it once all the wood had been carved off. The teachers were even more annoying. They could see what was happening, but did nothing to prevent it.

He was called once to see his homeroom teacher during break time where they asked if he was being bullied. It was ridiculous. ‘Are you being bullied?’ How blind were they? He wasn’t one to speak up or cause a fuss, but was he really that invisible? Maybe they just didn’t want to actually have to deal with anything, it would be easier if there was no problem. He’d told them that he wasn’t, that everything was fine and it was just a running joke with some friends in another class. The teacher had looked at him quizzically, she clearly didn’t believe his words, but accepted it nonetheless. It would have been totally unbelievable if he’d never had Amami, but he had now been known to hang around with someone in another class, so his lie could slip by.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want the teachers to step in, he would have loved nothing more than to get that group in trouble at this point, he _wanted_ to see them struggle. Instead he lied out of fear. If he was having problems at school, they might contact his parents. As it was, he was still attending school, so they had no reason to contact them. The last thing he wanted was for the school to insist on them picking him up or something like that. If they came to get him in the middle of the day, no one would hear his resistance like they would outside of school hours.

But he was kidding himself really. That probably wasn’t the reason they hadn’t come to get him after school since he’d been missing. It’d be as much a hassle for them to come get him during the day as it would be for him, he was sure. They just didn’t care about him, that was the only reason why he’d heard literally nothing from them since he left. That, or they had taken themselves to ruination and were lying dead in their dingy, little home. He wasn’t even sure at this point if he cared. He had the thought, yet nothing pulled at him to want to check. How awful of a person was he? That he didn’t even want to check that his own parents were still alive?

 

The biggest problem at school was still that group though. Amami’s little entourage. Their gang seemed all the stronger for losing one, like an act of self-preservation. They banded together in their unadulterated hatred of him. He hadn’t explained himself properly to them, but they hadn’t truthfully given him the chance to either. When they all showed up together, it was rather intimidating. Their numbers advantage, the way they loomed over him, that aura of wanting nothing more than to hurt the boy in their crosshair. He was sure it didn’t matter any more anyway. They needed someone to blame, and they could justify him having some part in it. He was sure they would feel differently if they were told that Amami did it himself, put himself in for Danganronpa and auditioned, maybe they would even share some comradery over losing him. He knew they wouldn’t trust the words coming from him though, so he didn’t try.

They hadn’t cornered him after school again, thankfully. Maybe they were worried that Momota would come storming in again looking for a fight. They still found ways to get to him during the day though. The desk, break times, lunch times – they were unavoidable. Small incidents that didn’t raise too much alarm. Tripping, pushing, jabbing, playground stuff. His bruises were beginning to mount again all the same. Just small, niggling reminders of his day. Of his reality.

On top of his terrible days at school, he had worries waiting for him back at Amami’s apartment. The ever-approaching due date for the rent that he didn’t have. That he wouldn’t have. He still had no idea where to go, or what to do. He would try and wait it out, but he wouldn’t be able to go to court over this, he wouldn’t even know how to or where to begin! He weighed up whether it would be better for him to sleep on the street, or go back home. Which was safer? The fact that he had to compare them both as viable options filled him a sense of emptiness. Not dread, or fear, or concern, just, nothing.

Someone that had saved him, someone that had loved him had put him in the position he was in now. He had knowingly done this to him. That was the only thing that ignited a strong sense of emotion in him now. His living arrangements meant nothing to him, what mattered is that the person that was supposed to be helping him, protecting him, caring for him had been the one to create this dangerous situation for him. It disgusted him.

 

It felt like his whole week was just a build up for Friday. It was just like how his weeks used to feel, before he was ‘rescued’. He wouldn’t even try to avoid the fact that he would see Saihara on Friday. He knew the other boy would be waiting outside of school for him, or would send Momota to pick him up. It was unavoidable, so why not just accept it? It wasn’t worth fighting. Plus, he needed to see the next episode. It wasn’t because he expected Amami to have any part in the first murder, but he just needed to see more of him. More of his personality. More of whatever Danganronpa had made him into. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see differences or similarities, but he needed to see it.

Saihara hadn’t messaged him at all throughout the week after seeing him on Saturday. Ouma hadn’t messaged either, so he guessed it was fair. What was there to say anyway? He could only complain about what his life was like at the moment, and no one wanted to listen to constant negativity like that. He guessed the fanatic hadn’t had any breakthroughs on what kind of character he expected Amami to be either.

The final bell signalled the end of the day. There was a certain familiarity to the feeling that spread through him as it did. Knowing that he was going to Saihara’s house to watch a killing game. He hated everything about that statement, but the feeling that coursed through him wasn’t a bad one. He couldn’t tell if he was just glad to not be alone, or if it was something else.

Was he excited?

No, that couldn’t be it. The word just didn’t feel right. How could he be excited? Excited to watch his beloved boyfriend suffer through the endless killing game? Finding bodies, accusing friends, watching them die, he didn’t want him to go through any of that. He certainly wasn’t _excited_ to watch him go through it.

Saihara was waiting outside the school, by the alley like he always did before. He was kind of surprised that Momota wasn’t there again. He sighed as he made his way over to the boy in dark clothing. Of course Momota wasn’t there. How foolish of him to think that Saihara wouldn’t know that he wasn’t getting harassed by that group after school now. Saihara always knew.

Ouma noticed his hat move first as he lifted his attention from his phone to the shorter boy approaching, his face breaking out into a surprised looking smile. He must not have been expecting Ouma to go over to him without any additional pressure. Ouma knew he didn’t have a choice, so what was the point in making it more difficult? They greeted each other quickly and started walking the route to the train. It felt like it had been so long since he had last made this journey. He hadn’t gone to Saihara’s from school like this for a while, and he hadn’t gone home for a while. He would have liked it to have stayed that way.

“How was your day?” Saihara started the conversation first, looking straight ahead as he walked.

“Fine,” Ouma lied in response, a neutral lie that wouldn’t interest Saihara enough to ask for more details. Though in truth, he was sure that even if he admitted that his day had been terrible, that every day now was terrible, Saihara still wouldn’t probe further into that. He’d probably change the subject to whatever he was interested in talking about. Danganronpa. His only interest. “Yours?” He continued the conversation, it was only polite.

Saihara blew his question off with a similarly single word answer, immediately shifting the conversation to who they thought the killer of the first victim was. There were some parts of Saihara that were almost painfully predictable. The parts of him that weren’t predictable, however, were the scary parts.

 

By the time they got to Saihara’s apartment, they had discussed the first episode to death. Really, how much was there in one episode to talk about? Saihara had made his suspicions surrounding the Ultimate ??? clear, as the main suspect of the first murder, but even he acknowledged that the amount of evidence against her at this point made her stand out too much. It had to be someone else. Besides that, killing off the Ultimate ??? this early would be way too fast.

Honestly during the first episode Ouma had been hyper-fixated on watching Amami, he hadn’t cared much for the other characters or what they were doing. Amami looked to be safe from blame for this first murder, he had stayed around other characters at all times and so was probably the character that would confirm a group’s alibi and not have had the chance to do any killing himself.

Ouma slumped himself on the sofa as normal, not assisting Saihara in setting up the table of usual snacks and drinks. He sort of wondered if Saihara still got out food and drink when he was watching it alone. He probably did, he guessed, like a ritual of some sort. Once the table was laid out, Saihara excitedly sat beside Ouma, getting the TV to the right channel in preparation for the episode to start.

Already Saihara felt way too close to him. As always, their legs bumped up against each other, body heat leaking over into each others’ spaces. Ouma could feel the anticipation of the new episode seeping into him, that same antsy, unshakable feeling he had felt earlier. Something akin to excitement, but less heartless. He decided he would rather the feeling be more like longing; he was just longing to see Amami again and the show was the only way to do that. That had to be it.

He reached forward to grab one of the multipack bags of crisps, a plain salty flavour. He wasn’t hungry, but it gave him something to do, a way to busy his hands. The rustling took away from the silence that hung between them, while they sat and waited for the show to begin. It felt like there was a lot more tension between them now then there used to be, probably since Ouma was much more guarded around Saihara now. Before he used to believe that he could use Saihara, that Saihara was somehow grateful to him for spending time with him, but now he felt completely differently towards the creep. The stalking, the _collecting_ , he had no idea what was going on in his head. He was not as simple as he had seemed in the beginning. He was dangerous now.

 

Thankfully it wasn’t too long before the show began, the overly recognisable theme playing loudly through the speakers. The first time Amami showed up on-screen, Ouma felt Saihara shuffle a little closer to him, the sides of their legs flush against each other. It was almost like he was showing off to the character in the TV, showing off that _he_ was the one that got to be near his boyfriend now.

Ouma paid him no attention, instead focusing solely on the show, burning every frame that Amami appeared in into his brain. Everyone split into groups of 2, except for one group of 3 now that they were odd numbered in total, and started investigating. Amami ended up paired with the Ultimate ??? girl. Everyone else was too suspicious, refusing to search with her except for the ever calm Ultimate Adventurer. He approached her after several others had turned her away and invited her to explore the area with him for clues. She’d looked so relieved to have a partner, despite being the person most of them expected to be the murderer.

The pair stood out, Amami’s striking, brightly coloured features besides her bland, almost two-dimensional colourations. She was still jittery about finding the body, about looking suspicious, constantly fixing her glasses and fussing with her long, pleated skirt. Amami, on the other hand, looked to have recovered from seeing the body, instead trying to zero in on whatever evidence they could find to help out the others. One completely focused on herself, and the other completely concentrated on their surroundings.

However, they were not the main characters. They caught glimpses of each of the groups investigating, but only when the protagonist and his investigation partner approached that area. Even the main character was wary of the Ultimate ???, so he tried to avoid her and Amami the most. This was frustrating since it reduced their screen time a bit. Ouma was sure he would find people complaining about that in the forums later.

After turning up a variety of items and alibis, Monokuma made the announcement for the students to gather at the school’s courtyard. Once they got outside, they stood in awe as the area in front of them shifted and morphed into an escalator that led them to the roof of the school. That would be the arena for the trials this time around. As they ascended to the top of the building, they were presented with their own podiums to stand behind, a framed picture of the first victim, a pink cross marked corner to corner had been erected behind her podium. Being so high up added some drama to the shot, their hair and clothes catching in the wind and swooshing around. Of course, complaints of coldness came from some of the characters, but their whines fell on deaf ears as the trial began.

 

The whole thing went much to Ouma’s expectation. Almost everyone was eager to pin the blame on the Ultimate ??? based on her behaviour as a motive. For a while it looked like there could be no other culprit until a conflict finally presented itself.

“That would make sense if the murder weapon actually was a kitchen knife,” Amami was the one to speak up in her defence, having stayed practically silent until this point despite the way the others had been bullying the girl into a corner.

“Uh, the murder weapon _was_ the kitchen knife dumbass. Why else would it be right next to the body, you know, covered in blood?” a crass girl spoke up, her short skirt flapping against the breeze showing the black shorts she wore underneath, bandages wrapped around parts of her legs and arms. She acted tough, but her whole body was shivering in the wind. The Ultimate Free runner. Amami gave a small self-satisfied smile at her unsurprising response, holding up one hand and shaking his index finger side to side.

“No, it’s not.” He stated with certainty, causing the others to start thinking about what that could possibly mean. It was so blindingly obvious that the murder weapon had been the bloodied kitchen knife next to the stabbed body that the protagonist hadn’t even thought to look more into it than that. “In the Arts room there was a craft knife, I remember seeing it when we were first investigating the different rooms in the school. I checked in there again during the investigation, and the craft knife was gone.”

This revelation led to the mid-trial intermission, then they were thrust back into the full force of the ongoing trial. It was agreed that the craft knife could have been used to kill the victim, no one had looked at their wounds closely, the blood obscuring the size of the injury. Everyone had believed without a doubt that the knife beside her was the one used to kill her. Knowing that the actual murder weapon was from the Arts room completely changed the suspect list, and from there it was stunningly easy for them to pick holes in another student’s alibi for that time, revealing them as the blackened.

 

Ouma couldn’t help but feel proud. He was proud that Amami had been the one to produce the evidence that led to the damning of the blackened, that without him the others would have accused someone who hadn’t done it. This meant, however, that now a student had been selected as the blackened, an execution was about to take place. As always, the characters on screen were torn between crying out that it was unfair to have another of their peers killed, and arguing that they kind of deserved it for killing another student.

Amami stayed quiet for most of this ruckus, likely feeling partially to blame for the killer being identified, and so partially to blame for their upcoming death. On the other hand, being able to find the correct killer stopped the rest of them from being executed. It was a delicate line that Danganronpa never failed to deliver on. The moral dilemmas and people’s own sense of ethics were some of the most interesting parts of the show. Justifications and excuses.

They all watched on in the same horror though, as the blackened was dragged away from them, limbs snapped up in cuffs, and sentenced to death. The blackened this time was the Ultimate Embroiderer, and so Ouma prepared himself for needles. Lots of needles. The execution was made to look like an escape room, sort of matching the theme the protagonist had initially found himself in upon waking. The appearance led to a sense of hope, the belief that there was a way to escape. The viewers knew, however, that there was no escaping an execution, as much as it looked like they could.

The task to escape was to replicate a pattern. All the materials were provided, threads, needles, scissors, etc, except for one of the most important. Any sort of canvas to sew onto. Initially the ultimate tried to sew onto their own clothing, but each attempt was met with a flurry of sharp pointed needles being flung from the walls into the person in the centre of the room. After a few different attempts they seemed to realise that the only thing they weren’t punished for sewing onto was their own skin. Moving with fervent determination they attempted with all their skill to replicate the large pattern into their leg, the problem being the other needles that stuck out at all angles that tangled the thread and got in the way. Time ran out just as they were about to be finished, a final glimpse of their tear-soaked face still full of frenzied life, before the walls opened, firing more needles at their target, and thread. The culprit helplessly attempted to cover their eyes from the onslaught, ignoring the thread tangling around their now spiked and jagged body, wrapping tighter and tighter until it caught around their throat. They struggled uselessly, unable to untangle the thread that tied round their throat due to their trapped arms. They just wiggled, with less and less energy, until their face turned a grey-blue behind their protective hands, and they stopped moving all together.

The execution had been quite drawn out due to the lack of lethality in the needles, and the game-like style it had taken. Even Ouma had to admit that watching them trying so hard to escape, like nothing else mattered, and truly believing that they could do something to stay alive was quite exhilarating. The panting beside him told him that Saihara probably felt the same. The body remained on screen for a few moments, blood seeping into their clothing and dripping from the seams. Those needles must have gone in deep to draw so much blood. Ouma cringed a little just thinking about it. A needle being fired like a bullet and burying itself so deep into your body that you bleed around it, enough to streak and drip. Not just once, but over and over, several at a time. He wondered if Saihara was thinking the same thing.

It cut back to the other students, their faces still displaying the dismay of having witnessed something so brutal, and knowing that they could face a similar fate in the future. With that weighing heavy on them, they took the elevator back down to floor level and went their separate ways in near silence.

 

As the ending credits rolled, Ouma felt Saihara’s gaze before he met it. That crazed, predatory look he always used to have about him after witnessing a death like that. Ouma couldn’t mentally prepare himself enough. He turned to the other boy, careful, hesitant. All at once Saihara was on him, pinning him to the corner of the sofa, his body completely blocking off Ouma’s escape routes. Ouma blinked up at Saihara, his heart pattering frantically, frozen at the how quickly Saihara had moved. How confidently he had moved.

Saihara adjusted himself, Ouma unable to make any moves of escape or rebellion. One hand gripped the back of the loveseat beside Ouma’s head, the other hand was clasped onto the armrest that Ouma was leant against. He shifted his knees up so that he was leaning on those on the sofa, instead of his feet on the ground. One leg was shoved less than gracefully between Ouma’s legs, thankfully not with enough force to hurt, but enough to force to know that he meant to put it there. The sense of total vulnerability at his position sank in very quickly.

“He was good in that trial, wasn’t he?” Saihara panted out, his flushed face close enough for Ouma to feel his breath against his own.

“Uh, y-yeah,” Ouma shakily replied, he expected to talk about the episode afterwards, but he expected the position they were in to be addressed first really. Saihara’s wobbly smile steered further upwards, his body drawing ever closer.

“To think,” he breathed the words, his face so close Ouma’s eyes were beginning to strain, “the mouth that shared the evidence that led someone to their death has been against yours.” Ouma attempted to back away from the closeness, his back pathetically wriggling against the corner of the sofa. “That your tongue has been in that mouth, and that his tongue has been in yours,” he continued to whisper, Saihara’s thigh rubbing against his crotch as his body seemed to envelop Ouma’s. Grotesque thoughts from a gross person.

As soon as he had finished that thought, Saihara closed the rest of the distance, his lips crushing against Ouma’s. Caught by surprise yet again, his limbs remained stiffened, unable to move, unsure what to even do. He couldn’t pull away, and couldn’t find the strength to try and push the other boy away. Ouma could feel Saihara’s saliva pooling in the corners of his mouth. The hand that had been clenching the armrest made a move towards him, pushing up his jacket and shirt to touch at the soft flesh beneath. The hand massaged just below his ribs in the same rhythm as his thigh shifted between his legs.

For a moment, the feeling got to him, his lips mindlessly falling slightly apart, enough of a gap for Saihara to snake his invasive tongue in. Ouma made a slight muffled sound, but that didn’t deter the other. He felt like the tongue slide against his own, and trace the shape of his mouth. Ouma opened his eyes, unsure of when he closed them, and was immediately faced with Saihara’s own. It was alarming to see his eyes open, as if they had closed, while feeling his tongue swiftly exploring inside his mouth. They gleamed, more piercing than he had ever seen them. He closed his own again, wanting to be away from that uncomfortable feeling. The hand touching him under his shirt focused in on rubbing small circles, the new pad of fat under his skin rubbing against the bones of his ribs in a way he wasn’t totally familiar with yet. Saihara’s tongue found a new target at the same time, darting to lick at the gum where his missing molar would be. The missing molar that Momota had knocked out, and Saihara kept under his bed.

That feeling spurred things to come back to him, gave him the energy to feel his arms again and shove the boy above him. Their lips separated roughly, Saihara lifted the hand that had been touching him and Ouma used that opportunity to jump up from the sofa, untangling himself from Saihara. The other had the gall to look shocked by Ouma’s movements, as if he expected Ouma to have been enjoying it as much as himself. Ouma just knew he needed to leave. He rushed towards the door initially, but halted once he got to it. The urgency just seemed to leave him once he got face to face with the door. He grabbed his shoes and slid them on, less urgency, but he still needed to leave.

Saihara appeared behind him when he grabbed his bag. He came to see him off, Ouma guessed.

“I’ll text you later, there’s still, uh, a lot of the episode to talk about.” Ouma almost couldn’t believe Saihara’s words, the calm way he said them as if he hadn’t just jumped him like that.

“Right,” Ouma trod carefully with his words, just wanting out the apartment.

He had never been more glad to hear that door close behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	38. Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t get rid of Saihara yet though, he still knew something. How was he supposed to get that information from the fantasy detective though? Saihara knew he had this up on Ouma.

He rushed in through the front door of Amami’s apartment, throwing down his bag and shoes, he headed straight to the bedroom. He leapt onto the sheets ungracefully, craving the feeling of weightlessness, a surrounding of soft, warm fabric. Despite the comfort, he still felt awful. It didn’t stem from the power walk he’d done back to this home, which still left an ache through his legs. It was because of Saihara. Just being around the other boy filled him with an uncomfortable sensation, but the way he had been that night left Ouma feeling terrible. Far more than he had done before. He couldn’t quite place why it felt so much worse than before though. Saihara had done worse things to him than just some touching and kissing, but this unpleasant feeling that ran through him was unbearable.

It was probably because of Amami. His boyfriend. They had never broken up or anything before he showed up on the TV. But, the Amami he was with didn’t really exist anymore, did he? The Amami he was with had been overwritten with the new Ultimate Adventurer character on Danganronpa, that was how they did it, wasn’t it?

The forums often speculated on the limitations and methods of Team Danganronpa’s memory alteration techniques, but it always came back to ‘overwriting’ memories. Did that mean that the Amami he knew _was_ still in there somewhere, but someone new was just covering it? Or was he completely gone? It wasn’t like Ouma was ever going to get to see him again. He guessed he felt guilty because of that, because it was like he was still with Amami, and while he was still with Amami, Saihara had kissed him. But he shouldn’t feel guilty, because Amami was gone. Amami was going to die, and he had abandoned Ouma and put him in a hopeless situation. He shouldn’t feel guilty. But it still all felt so wrong.

 

Frustrated with his endless loop of aggressive thoughts, he clambered out of the bed, coming face to face with the full body mirror. He stared intently at himself, as if there was some answer hidden within the reflective surface. He checked himself over for any marks that Saihara might have left on him. His face looked fine; he supposed any redness on his face would have faded during his walk. He lifted his shirt to inspect the area around his ribs and side where Saihara had been touching. The touch hadn’t been particularly rough or anything, so he didn’t expect to see any bruises. It was almost like he could still feel Saihara touching him though, like an echo of his movements against his skin.

He brushed his own fingers against the area. He pressed down slightly, his fingertips squishing the skin down, not used to the feeling of fat between bone and flesh. He pushed his clothing further up, taking in the sight of his upper body in the mirror. He’d never seen himself with so few blemishes across his body. Of course, he was far from flawless, small marks were dotted around from bumps and scrapes he’d had at school, but nothing like what he was used to seeing.

He’d also never seen himself with such rounded edges, he was used to protrusions of bone and his almost translucent skin pulled across them almost painfully. Now he looked different, smooth with subtle curves along his frame instead of jagged lines. Even his skin was a bit more tanned, though that had been fading now that he didn’t leave the apartment on as many walks as he did with Amami.

He knew his changed body was because of Amami’s generous treatment of him. The new layers were like a physical manifestation of his care for Ouma. Proof that he had been there and that he had helped. Evidence of all he’d done. It was a body that Saihara hadn’t had access to previously, and it was something that Saihara shouldn’t have access to now. Something he was never meant to touch, or have at all. Saihara could only have him the way he was before Amami. The thought of Saihara’s spiny, grabbing hands over his malleable, plumped form disgusted him. 

He couldn’t get rid of Saihara yet though, not only did he not really have the choice, Saihara was the one always watching him, not the other way around. Saihara also still knew something. He still had unshared information, most interestingly about Amami’s true nature. Why Akamatsu hated him, what Saihara had meant before by ‘how he is’. How was he supposed to get that information from the fantasy detective though? Saihara knew he had this up on Ouma, and before hadn’t been willing to give away his upper hand so easily, expertly evading his line of questioning with an aptitude he hid. On the surface Saihara was simple, single-minded and socially weird. Deeper down he was more. He was sly, clever, guarded and terrifying. Insane. Completely out of his mind. How was he supposed to squeeze what he wanted from Saihara, when Saihara was always the one on the winning side? When he had thought he was using the other boy, it turned out that Saihara had been getting exactly what he’d wanted the whole time. How was he supposed to compete?

He would have to use Saihara’s vices against him. Ouma couldn’t exactly use Danganronpa against Saihara, so what else did he like? What could be exploited as a weakness and used to garner information that he would otherwise keep to himself? Saihara revelled in violence, gore and sex. He could certainly use some of those things, he supposed. He needed to. He had to know. He gripped his stomach as his mind flooded with repulsive ideas.

He was so screwed.

 

The weekend passed him by, he didn’t leave the house, or do anything really. He mostly stayed in bed. He got up to get washed, so he felt a little more alive, and do the school work that he needed to do, but soon returned to the allure of the duvet. There was too much happening and he didn’t want to think about any of it. He just wanted to sleep. Though that didn’t stop him from periodically checking his phone when he was awake, and scrolling through those forums he’d become reacquainted with. As predicted, people were complaining about the lack of Amami screen time. He was a popular character already because of his pretty face, so fans of his wanted that face on camera as much as possible. Of course, there were plenty of people fangirling over the trial moments as well, he could almost hear their overenthusiastic squeals as he read the headers littered with too many exclamation marks. Agonising.

Then, it was time for school again. The weekend offered such a short respite from his daily miserable school life. More desk markings, more gossip, more bullying. He hated hearing the students talk about the show, talk about Amami on the show. All that ‘someone from our school is on it this season’, and so forth. His least favourite was ‘I always knew that Amami guy was a killer’.

While some people went on Danganronpa to die, most went in with some belief that they could win, and that winning would mean anything. Some people just went on Danganronpa to kill, knowing that they would die afterwards. He guessed Saihara fit that category the best, he wanted to kill and be executed, he seemingly had no intention of winning. He _wanted_ to be found out, for everyone to know exactly what he’d done, and for everyone to have to watch his punishment for it. Amami wasn’t like that. Though he didn’t know why he’d gone on the show, he knew that it couldn’t possibly be for a reason like that.

His focus was lacking throughout the day, he found his concentration wandering during classes. It could have been because he had so much weighing on his mind, and it could have been because he was so hungry. He ignored the unending growls and shots of pain from his stomach, determined not to give in. When the pain became too frustrating, he found himself retching in the toilets. Gagging until his throat and stomach ached for a different reason, and his appetite vanished. It wasn’t pleasant, and he was sure people could tell from the way he would leave the toilets pale with watery, bloodshot eyes, but he didn’t care. They could think what they wanted. The truth didn’t matter to those people anyway, they would come to their own conclusions and treat that as the truth regardless. 

 

‘Not at school today?’ his phone gleamed angrily at him on Wednesday morning. He’d taken a sick day; it wasn’t like him to miss school but he just couldn’t do another day of it. He’d called in, usually the school needed a parent to confirm that the student was unwell, but he explained that his parents were already at work. The school didn’t need much convincing it seemed.

‘No, sick day,’ he simply replied. The truth, kind of. He wasn’t sick, but that was the excuse he was using. He didn’t receive another message for a couple of hours. Ouma didn’t do much, it wasn’t like he’d made plans for that day. It was mostly just worrying. Worrying about Amami, worrying about Saihara, worrying about school, about Amami’s gang, about the rent, about everything. Saihara continued the trend of seemingly being inside Ouma’s head when his phone finally buzzed again around half one. He must have waited until lunch time to message, which was a little odd since he’d never had any qualms with texting during lessons before.

‘The rent on that apartment must be due soon. What are you going to do?’ Ouma stared at the text in disbelief. How did Saihara know anything about that? That was absolutely nothing to do with him!

‘How did you know that? I’m not sure what to do,’ he played it completely truthfully. There was no point in lying on this one, Saihara already knew, he absolutely knew. The next text came in quickly.

‘Akamatsu told me, her rent is coming up soon too. Their apartments are paid for at the same time.’ That made a lot of sense, it was probably easier for the family to pay for both apartments at the same kind of time. Another text from Saihara came in almost immediately after that one, like he’d forgotten to add it to the last text. ‘Are you going to move back with your parents?’

‘No,’ Ouma immediately tapped back, sending the message with no further explanation. He didn’t really have a further explanation. He wasn’t moving back in with his parents, but he had no idea what he was going to do. It was like every facet of his life was existing at that moment just to be stressful. 

Apparently, that was the end of their conversation, his phone remained silent for the rest of the day. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, did he think that Saihara would offer him something? That he and Akamatsu would somehow provide him with the funds to pay the rent? Or did he believe that Saihara would offer his own home up to Ouma to stay in? Would he even accept that kind of offer? Surely Saihara must have thought it, isn’t that pretty much a stalker’s dream? To have the subject of their interest live with them, with no other options to choose from? He gave out a huff, almost offended at this point that Saihara hadn’t offered him a place to stay. There was still time, maybe he was waiting until the deadline, to really trap him. What was he even doing, thinking things like this? He had to reiterate to himself that he would never even take that offer, what could be worse?

 

He returned to school on Thursday, no more recuperated than before. Just behind. He worked to catch up, missing one day of school was far from the end of the world. The problem was how much more intense everything seemed after having that day off. How much harder seeing his desk hit him, how much louder everyone’s voices sounded. It was like he was more sensitive to the hell that surrounded him.

He found himself counting down to Friday. It meant the end of the school week, and it meant getting to see Amami again, even if it was just on TV. He would have to see Saihara again too, which wasn’t ideal, but he decided that he might prefer spending time with him than at school. Everything was just so confusing.

On Thursday night he checked around the house and worked out what he would pack if he needed to leave quickly. If he was forced out of the house immediately, or something like that. He wasn’t really sure how it would work. For once he was thankful that he owned so little. He could throw his clothes and toothbrush into his duffel bag that he’d moved in with, his phone would fit in his pocket and he would even have his hands free to take something like that chessboard that sat under the table in the living area. The light streamed in over the top of the lid, highlighting the dust lightly swaying on the surface. He wasn’t sure if he would really take it or not.

He found himself face to face with the mirror again that night, before he’d put his sleeping top on. He was definitely smaller again, narrower. His face was less rounded along his jaw, pinching in at a slightly sharper chin. The tops of his arms looked particularly thin, but he guessed he just lost weight there a little faster than other areas. His ribs were a little more pronounced, but not nearly as much as they had been in the past. If he sucked in his breath, the individual bones could be seen, but ordinarily they were still obscured. A little pocket of fat still sat just above his hips on the lower part of his belly. He was sure he didn’t used to have that. His stomach was flat, no longer sticking out past the line of his ribs at all, but it used to dip inwards. He still had a bit to do before he could be comfortable with Saihara putting his hands on him. As if he would ever actually be _comfortable_ with that, but it would be _acceptable_ he guessed. Maybe another week and he would be there. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before, he’d just gotten used to being regularly fed. In the past he wouldn’t have even been able to imagine being taken care of like he had been, feeling like he had done. He could keep this up, no problem.

 

Ouma was more than ready for it to be Friday when the day finally rolled around. Saihara wasn’t even a real concern in his mind, that was how much his school life had been weighing on him. He would rather go and see Saihara, and watch his boyfriend try to survive a death game on the television, than spend another moment in school.  Amami would probably be appalled if he knew, but it was all his fault that things were like this now.

Saihara was waiting for him by the alley alone, as he always did. He supposed it wasn’t entirely different from Amami waiting for him by the school gates. If anything, Saihara was more reliable. They shared brief greetings, Saihara asked if he felt any better. Ouma had paused for a moment, unsure what he’d meant, but realised he was referring to the sick day.

“It’s been a bad week,” was all the context Ouma gave. Saihara seemed satisfied with that, switching topics.

The next episode was likely to be a free time episode, Ouma didn’t usually care for those episodes too much since he didn’t form attachments to particular characters, knowing that they were terrible people that were going to die. He also knew that this season was different for him. He knew that he would watch that episode with baited breath, eager for any moments that Amami appeared on screen. He wondered if Saihara was just as excited to see the scenes with Amami in as well. Those did seem to interest him. He did know Amami, not well, but he had met him and knew things about him. Knew things that Ouma didn’t. He was also interested in Ouma’s reactions to each episode, how it felt for him to watch Amami. The difference their closeness made.

It felt like he and Saihara spoke about nothing until they arrived at his apartment. Just mindless Danganronpa talk, there wasn’t even much to theorise about yet other than random guesses at who the mastermind could be. They had drifted onto the fandom a few times, but it wasn’t exactly Ouma’s favourite subject. Especially when he’d seen the forums gushing over fanart of the investigating groups paired romantically. People claimed Amami was easy to ‘ship’ with any of the other characters because he was so laid back, it would be good for anyone. It looked to be quite common after last week’s episode that people liked to ship Amami with his search partner, the mousy girl with the long blue hair and glasses. The ships were given names as well, it seemed to be something people had done for a long time, the ship names were just combinations of the characters’ names. It seemed no matter where he’d looked on the forums, he had kept on seeing ‘Shiromami’ posted everywhere. So many polls on which pairing were people’s favourites from the search groups.

He didn’t tell Saihara that though, if he could get away with not telling the other boy something, he would. Saihara already knew too much, and he wasn’t exactly sharing everything he knew either.

 

As expected, the episode had been a free time episode. The characters were all still quite new so they were still introducing themselves and giving small hints to their backstories. Amami’s backstory seemed pretty straightforward so far, and somewhat true to life. He had well off parents that would take him away on holidays, eventually they got a boat and Amami was determined to learn how to sail it. His enthusiasm worked in his favour, and he learned quickly, and started sneaking out on it whenever his parents were away. Being an only child made it a lot easier to sidle away on journeys before they came back home. It sounded like quite the exciting life Team Danganronpa had dreamed up for him. Ouma was a little jealous, but at the same time it was frustrating. Frustrating to see someone he knew retelling memories of events that never happened, and knowing that they had no memory of the things that did. Or, a suppressed memory, at least. He wondered if that Amami would recognise him if they met.

Saihara didn’t pounce on him after the episode, though his hands did wander to touch at Ouma’s own hands and thighs. Ouma hadn’t acknowledged the touch though. He remembered from before that Saihara would be a lot calmer on the free time episode days, there was nothing in the episode to ignite him. Ouma still made sure he got out the door soon after the episode ended, not wanting to give Saihara time to change his mind and start getting all handsy.

As he was sliding his shoes on, Saihara stood in the hallway in front of him and asked him a sudden question.

“How long do you have left on the apartment?” It was the first serious thing he’d said to him that day. Ouma hadn’t expected the subject of his living arrangements to come up at all, let alone this late into their meeting.

“Uh, I, um,” he stuttered, trying to think of a way to avoid the question. He’d been asked straight up, so there was no way he could just not answer. “I, uh, not long.” He could keep his answer vague though. Saihara let out a neutral grunt in response, a slight nod of his head.

“Don’t sleep on the street,” he warned, their eyes not meeting, “it’s too dangerous. You can’t die yet.” At first Ouma had thought Saihara was worried about him, but no, he was just worried about his precious victim. Ouma clenched his teeth together, refusing to say anything more on it.

“See you later,” he turned to Saihara at the door, knowing that he would see the other boy later. Not only could he not really get away from it, but there were still things he needed from Saihara.

“You can sleep here,” the other said out of nowhere again, startling Ouma. “If you need to,” he finished softly, an oddly kind voice. Ouma turned away sharply and left, hearing the door slowly click closed as he hastily walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	39. Pathetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When had he become so pathetic? So weak? So soft?

A large portion of the weekend was spent in frustration. Ouma couldn’t help but think over that interaction with Saihara over and over. The whole thing annoyed him. He had half a mind to go and sleep on the street when his lease was up, get killed by a stranger just to ruin Saihara’s fun. What was with him anyway? He’d never understood Saihara’s fascination with him, why he’d been selected as the ‘Ultimate Victim’ or whatever nonscience Saihara spouted. Even if they both put in applications, or Saihara applied and Ouma was nominated, there was still no guarantee that either of them would be selected for show, let alone both of them. Why did Saihara believe he could pick a victim before even applying to be on the show? Did he know something that Ouma didn’t? Something about how Team Danganronpa selects its participants?

Saihara had gotten lucky once, after all. He’d nominated Amami, who as it turned out had also applied, and Amami had been chosen for the show. He’d probably been picked to be on Danganronpa mostly because of his looks, it wasn’t unusual for each season to have attractive characters, it definitely helped pull in a wider audience. Was there anything more to it? Something about his fabricated backstory that particularly stood out? Would that even matter? The creators have the right to completely ignore the participant’s submitted story and talent, so they could impose whatever character they wanted on whoever they wanted. Within reason, at least. There _were_ limitations, though Ouma didn’t understand what those limitations were other than what Saihara had said before about people retaining some memory of the people they knew.

There was so much he didn’t know. So much he didn’t understand. Saihara was the one with all the answers, and he was _right there_ , but he wasn’t making it easy. If he wanted to get answers out of him, he’d have to really earn them it seemed. Saihara was good at keeping things secret, it made perfect sense really, he had certain habits he needed to keep secret, didn’t he?

He wondered if Akamatsu knew everything about Saihara. The Danganronpa obsession aside, did she have any idea about the stalking? The extent of it? Did Ouma even know the full extent of it? He’d seen that box under Saihara’s bed, but was that it? What if there was more? What more could he even have? The thought was too creepy, especially for him, at night and alone in an apartment that didn’t belong to him.

Things used to be simple. Painful, but simple.

 

The week started up again, and Ouma was thrust back into his own personal hell for another 5 days. Days of being bullied, ridiculed, humiliated, and forced to listen to and see everyone’s opinions on the new Danganronpa season. There was no point avoiding it, that was what he reminded himself as he pulled out his phone to check the forums again for new posts. Of course, he was only interested in the ones related to Amami, there were plenty of people going crazy for other characters, but they were filtered out within moments of being on the webpage.

It was strange at this point that hunger had stopped bothering him. The only things that even reminded him that food was a thing were the other people around him comparing lunches, and the low, almost angry, gurgle his stomach would occasionally make. It was an odd sound, different from the usual higher-pitched whine that would emanate around meal times, instead it was more like the workings of old machinery, an abandoned mechanism. He wondered if anyone else actually heard it, or whether it was one of those sounds that is only heard by the person it came from. No one ever turned their head, so either they were ignoring it or it wasn’t as loud as it seemed to him. There was also the occasional bout of light-headedness, often resulting in him putting a foot down in the wrong position, not tripping but just interrupting his movements. It had been quite a while since he’d had that feeling. It was because the feeling used to be such a common occurrence that he didn’t believe his wounds were infected and making him ill for a long time. It was weird having that feeling back now.

There was an unexpected rumble from his phone during one of the morning classes on Tuesday. Ouma waited until between classes to check it. Almost a dig at Saihara for the pause in messages they’d had the week before.

‘Do I really have to wait until Friday to see you again?’ the message was different than Ouma had expected. He wasn’t sure if he had read it with the right tone, but to him it came across as kind of needy.

‘?’ he sent back the single piece of punctuation, a question mark to signify that he needed more information. Did Saihara have a reason for wanting to see him? He could feel his nerves begin to tangle up, it was like a ‘we need to talk’ moment, though that wouldn’t make any sense for him and Saihara since they weren’t in that sort of relationship. The sort of relationship where those words are scary. He wondered if Saihara was purposefully vague with his words to frighten Ouma, make him sweat and worry. If it was, then he knew Ouma more than Ouma would like to think.

‘Come round tomorrow after school?’ the question was sudden, Ouma felt like he was put on the spot immediately, even though they were only text messages.

What was Saihara thinking? What was he planning? Absently Ouma laid a hand against his stomach, feeling for a moment, unsure why the gesture made him more comfortable. He gathered his resolve. He didn’t know Saihara’s reason for wanting to see him, but he had a reason to see Saihara. He had information that Ouma needed, that Ouma would get out of him. He had a plan on how to do exactly that. He just needed the confidence to actually put it into action. To actually go ahead and do something like he was planning. A sour, putrid sensation flooded his abdomen as he thought about it again, blood draining from his face. Deep breath.

‘Okay, I’ll see you after school tomorrow. Wait for me outside like on Friday?’ he tapped out his sickly-sweet message, too approachable, too accepting.

‘See you then,’ was the final message, he was all too grateful to be able to throw the device back in his pocket.

 

Once he was back home, he had yet another look around the apartment, as if there would be some sort of hope awaiting him at the back of a drawer he hadn’t opened before. Enough money to pay the rent, a winning lottery ticket, some gold bars. Naturally, there wasn’t anything so lucky to be found. He was sure there wasn’t a place he hadn’t looked at this point. He just had to accept the situation, as lame as it was.

He sat himself on the sofa and clutched one of the white, fluffy cushions they had bought together. He held it close to his chest, squeezing it hard to release some of the bad feelings that were overflowing in him. He buried his nose in the soft fur, it was the cushion on Amami’s side of the sofa, but it didn’t hold much of a scent. It mostly just smelled artificial. He was annoyed that Amami didn’t have more items in his house, personal items. He just had clothes and practical things. It would be nice to have more around the house as a reminder of him. On the other hand, if the house was full of sentimental stuff, he would have a much harder time leaving it all behind when he has to go.

He stood in front of the mirror once more, this time in only his underwear, to check his body over again. He was still a little fuller than he had started, but it was acceptable he supposed. His body had been more attractive with the softness that a bit of fat had added, but he was sure this kind of body was appealing to some as well. Saihara had been attracted to it. Now he once again matched what he was when Saihara’s interest had first been pulled, when he’d been taking the pictures, and gathering what was his. This was the only form that Saihara deserved to be near.

 

School on Wednesday was a slog. So much of him wished he’d just skipped again like he had done the week before. He’d already had more than enough. It was all getting to him, the now mostly illegible desk, the murmurs, the shoving in the halls between classes. He missed walking into school and finding Amami surrounded by his group of friends, sharing stories and laughing away. It was like the other boy’s attitude had infected the whole school, not that he thought that before properly meeting Amami though. Before then school had just been a chore, he had instead just been filled with the dread of having to be surrounded by repulsive, degenerate people every day, instead of what he felt now. Isolated, but not in a good way, instead he was isolated from his peers much like an animal is isolated in a zoo, or a freak in a circus. It was a vile feeling.

When had he become so pathetic? The question rang out in his mind, louder and louder, breaking his concentration completely. He hid his face with a hand, elbow pressed down hard against the uneven, splintering desk. Mulling over his thoughts about his feelings had brought him to a conclusion he didn’t want to listen to. He was pathetic. Weak. Soft. When had he become so soft? So dependant? So easily overthrown? It was like everything could bring him to the brink of tears, had he always been like this? He still remembered the bitterness he felt at everyone else in this world, the hatred of the thought of getting involved with anyone.

Was it because of Amami? Or Saihara? Was it actually being able to believe in the goodness of someone? That person being ripped away? Or was it being put in such an uncomfortable, terrifying situation as Saihara had put him in? He’d never been the same with Saihara since he saw that horrific box, quickly becoming so reliant on Amami for safety. He got used to that security, and then in an instant it was gone. He used to act like he was so dependant on Saihara before, but it wasn’t real, just an act to get what he wanted from Saihara, so when did he become like _this_ all the time?

His resolve was steeled despite the bubbling pit of anxiety threatening to spill from his oesophagus. He hated everything about it, but he’d planned this. There were things he needed from Saihara, and this time he was going to get them. Just like before, when he used to play Saihara to get what he wanted from him, except this time it was bigger than just a breakfast.

 

Saihara was waiting for him, just as agreed. Ouma couldn’t help the tightness of his grip on his bag as he approached, the fear of his future actions resonating in his head. Forced smiles, usual pleasantries that meant nothing, and off they walked. The days were quite warm at times now, Ouma was surprised that Saihara could keep on wearing such dark clothing and his hat, though he wasn’t one to talk. He always kept his jacket on, just undoing the top few clasps if he was too hot. He guessed he was worried that people would see how loose his shirt was on him, at least it wasn’t so obvious with the slightly bulkier jacket.

Saihara filled most of the conversation, it was like he was filling Ouma in on what had happened on the current season of Danganronpa, even though he had been there watching the episodes along with him. Admittedly, it was kind of useful, since he had been paying so little attention to the other characters that weren’t Amami.

“It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?” Saihara suddenly spoke up as they neared his apartment complex. Ouma was surprised, though he didn’t know why he was so shocked. He’d never told Saihara, but Saihara knew a lot of things he wasn’t told. He wasn’t even completely sure where he might have gained that information. Pretend detective skills in action.

“Yeah, June 21st,” he clarified, though he doubted there was a reason to. It was nice to at least act like Saihara didn’t know _everything_ about him. The other let out a small giggle, muffled by his hand. Ouma stared up, unsure of what was so funny, earning him a wide-eyed look from the taller boy, realising what he had done.

“I was just,” he started, letting out one more chuckle before starting his sentence anew, “you certainly don’t look older than me, even if it’s just by a little bit.” Ouma let a small smile spread across his lips, he could see the humour in it.

“When’s yours?” Ouma decided to use the opportunity to pry a little, attempting to channel Amami’s smooth conversation skills. He’d had enough conversations with the more social boy that he should have absorbed some of that power at least.

“September 7th,” Saihara responded briefly, no amusement to be had from his own date.

“Not too far away,” Ouma pointlessly noted. He figured it hadn’t happened yet, and had yet to happen this year from when he’d worked out Saihara’s phone login. The number 53 appearing several times, denoting the season of Danganronpa he wanted to be on, or at least that was Ouma’s guess. It was a little surprising though, he’d thought it would be a bit earlier with Saihara’s confidence that he would be on that season. Saihara was definitely more informed about the application process than he was though, maybe there was a clause that allowed someone to audition if they were just about to become the minimum age for participation. Or if they would have their birthday during the show. After all, the seasons were of various lengths, they didn’t all make it to chapter 6. There had been quite a few seasons that had ended early when a killer had won the trial, or if the remaining cast had opted to go out in a blaze of suicidal glory.

 

They entered the apartment, Ouma headed straight to the living room after removing his shoes and dumping his bag. His apprehension soared with every step he took, his feet automatically guiding him to his spot on the sofa. He still didn’t actually know why Saihara wanted him here today. He couldn’t think of a reason outside of just wanting to see him, which he figured was unlikely. Saihara had veered off into the kitchen while Ouma had gone to sit down, his fidgety fingers occupied themselves with his phone, darting and scrolling his way around the forums he was now too familiar with if anything. As soon as he saw movement out the corner of his eye, he immediately returned to his home screen, putting his phone down on the table in front of him. Almost like he didn’t want to be caught looking at those websites. Saihara soon settled down next to him, a strange wordlessness, the pair just sitting side by side. Ouma felt less cramped in his spot now, he noticed. He needed to say something, the way they were sat just way too awkward. He cleared his throat first, not helping, before speaking.

“So, uh, what are we,” his voice trailed off, unsure of how to finish. ‘What are we doing here?’ ‘What’s the plan?’ He inwardly cursed himself for how timid he sounded, how uncertain.

“Ah, right,” Saihara seemed almost surprised by Ouma not knowing the purpose of this mysterious visit, despite never having told him. “I’m making dinner.” The answer caught Ouma off-guard, really off-guard.

“You, you are?” he stuttered, clenching his fist in annoyance of his own speaking habits. The other gave a curt nod in return.

“We always used to get food, right? I thought you’d like this,” Saihara explained himself, sounding far too pure than the creep Ouma knew him to be. What was his game? “I’m grilling some pork at the moment, I have rice in the freezer and I’ll just fry up some vegetables to go with it, I think that sounds good,” he explained, pressing a finger against his chin. Ouma had to admit it did sound good, and though he couldn’t smell the meat cooking yet, he could imagine it wafting in from the kitchen. He squeezed both fists closed, that wasn’t why he was here.

“That sounds really good,” he spoke after a delay, realising he should acknowledge Saihara’s menu. The other smiled back, as if those words truly made him happy. Ouma knew better than that though, there were always ulterior motives where Saihara was concerned.

“I’m kind of surprised you agreed to come over,” Saihara continued, eyes now locked on Ouma in a sideways glance. “It was starting to feel like you didn’t want to spend more time with me than you needed to,” though spoken in a neutral tone, Ouma could feel the spite behind those words. It was obvious really, the way Ouma had been practically running out of Saihara’s home each week. The minimal contact they shared the rest of the time. He had to turn this around.

 

“Well, I didn’t want to wait until Friday to see you either,” he replied, forcing the words to sound confident. He shifted his body round to face Saihara, hoping the new position looked somewhat casual.

“Oh?” Saihara tilted his head, mouth forming a small circle in question.

Ouma’s own eyes narrowed, a hard-set glower. He had to put his plan into action.

It was now or never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I really wanted Ouma's birthday in this fic to coincide with today, but it was not to be!


	40. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was this the feeling that others felt as they pushed him around, hurt him for their own entertainment? It was somewhat exhilarating, but probably different from what they had felt. The thing that made this so exciting was the fear.

Ouma threw himself at Saihara, hands clutching the sofa for balance. His pose almost mimicked the one Saihara had taken towards him the Friday before, except his legs were either side of Saihara’s instead of in-between them. Ouma sucked in a sharp, deep breath, hands digging into the sofa so hard he wondered if his nails would snap off. He slammed his lips down on Saihara’s, his own heart pounding in his head and chest at his actions. Saihara’s mouth was already open, Ouma’s opening to match quickly. Saihara was the first to dart his tongue forwards, colliding with Ouma’s. Their mouths moved to form a more comfortable position, saliva coating the corners of both their mouths already. Saihara’s hands began to slide against Ouma’s sides.

Ouma moved one of his hands, arms already shaking from supporting him. He shifted his hand to start opening the clasps of his jacket, one by one, all the way down. Their tongues continued to touch against each other, Saihara forcing his way into Ouma’s mouth each time they parted. Small gasps and pants of air punctuated their kissing. Once his jacket was undone, he grabbed one of Saihara’s hands, lifting it limply away from him and replacing it under his jacket. Saihara followed suit with his other hand as well, both groping up his sides against the thinner clothing.

It wasn’t enough.

Things were going in the right direction, but it wasn’t quite there yet. He needed more.

 

He broke away from their kiss, a sudden movement creating a wet sound of separation. He licked his own lips, trying not to think too hard about the concoction of their combined saliva that he was about to swallow, the thought of it still kind of grossed him out. Saihara withdrew his tongue as well, snaking it back behind his teeth, looking up at Ouma in a pleased sort of way, almost smug. Without another moment of hesitation Ouma mashed their faces together again, but at a slightly different angle. He opened his mouth a little to suck on Saihara’s lower lip, feeling the muscles in his lip go slack in his mouth. He sucked hard at the flesh, imaging the skin reddening and plumping. He let his tongue drift across the lip, a light, faint touch, as he gathered every ounce of his courage to get things going according to plan.

He brushed his front teeth against the skin between his lips first, earning something between a gasp and a shudder from the boy beneath him. That feeling spurred him on to move slightly, and press the point of his incisor against the lip instead. He felt no reaction at first, so he applied more pressure, biting down until he felt Saihara involuntarily twitch in response, as if to pull away but not actually pulling back with enough force to do so. He backed his teeth away, licking over the area, now feeling smoother somehow, and warmer. More. He bit down, incisor first, again, but this time he didn’t hold back. No slow increase in pressure, he went all in. He felt the crack of the skin under his teeth, and simultaneously felt Saihara’s body jolt.

He dipped his knees down further, lowering himself onto Saihara, sitting on his lap. Instantly he felt his hips grind upwards against him. Ouma pulled his teeth away from the lip again, but didn’t free him, the tang of iron spreading through his own mouth. He sucked at the lip again, hard, Saihara hissing against his mouth in response. He could feel his own mouth curl upwards slightly at the hiss, a sort of satisfaction in getting a minor showing of pain from Saihara for once. He reduced the force of his suction, and switched to his tongue, swiping over the split in his lip, and then again, feeling the additional wetness on the second swipe, and the accompanying metallic taste. He worked the tip of his tongue against the open injury, a sort of digging motion. Saihara’s hands moved to grab at Ouma’s hips, his fingers digging into his skin having slid under his shirt. Those hands held his hips down, keeping him tight against Saihara’s desperate gyrations.

He finally released the lip, licking his own again, observing the colour change in Saihara’s swollen lip to deep red, almost disguising the wound if it wasn’t for the fresh blood seeping above the surface. The look on his face was disgusting. Flushed, loving every second of this. Ouma could feel the colour in his own face, it didn’t feel natural for him to be taking charge like this, but needs must.

 

He grabbed the brim of the other boy’s cap and lifted it from his head, throwing it haphazardly into the centre of the room somewhere. Using the same hand, he dragged his fingers through Saihara’s dark blue-black hair, all the darker for being coated in grease. He could almost feel the texture of dirt, the thought that his fingers would probably come away shiny from this touch. His fingers caught in tangles of hair clumped together, Saihara’s head moved with each tug of the knots. Ouma gave up on trying to run his fingers through the length of his hair, and instead gripped the unkept mop, causing Saihara to roll his head to the side of the pulling, shoulder on the same side tensing upwards.

He was such a repulsive man, Ouma thought as he shifted his weight backwards to a more stable position, and moved his free hand down. He rubbed at Saihara’s crotch through his trousers, earning a keen thrust, and a groan as he attempted to move his head, pulling against Ouma’s hold of his hair. The single hand worked to undo Saihara’s school trousers, giving his boner space, though still restricted by his underwear. He slipped his hand into those boxers, Saihara sighing into the touch as Ouma tickled his fingers against his arousal. It was time.

He tightened his hand around Saihara’s dick and balls, the now threatened boy’s eyes wide in alarm, brightened by shock. This was it. He finally had leverage. The upper-hand. He couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. _He_ was the one in control. It looked like the mist had cleared from Saihara’s eyes, maybe he was realising the vulnerable position he had allowed himself to be lured into.

“Tell me,” he started almost breathlessly, excitement hammering through his body, powering him despite his trembling spine, “what you know about Amami, the secret, why he joined Danganronpa.” He enjoyed the sensations of demands flowing past his lips, savouring each word as it left him. He gave an experimental, firm squeeze, watching Saihara’s body twitch pitifully as he exaggerated his final word, “ _everything.”_

Saihara squirmed under his grip, Ouma had never felt powerful before, but this was it. This was what it felt like. Was this the feeling that others felt as they pushed him around, hurt him for their own entertainment? It was somewhat exhilarating, but probably different from what they had felt. The thing that made this so exciting was the fear, knowing that the person he held down was unpredictable, was dangerous. That if the situation were to be flipped on its head, that everything would go wrong.

 

“Okay,” the boy under him wheezed, giving up on his weak struggle, “alright.” Ouma waited patiently, loosening his grip but wiggling his fingers a little, just as a reminder to Saihara that they were right there. He imagined the relief on Saihara’s scalp as the hand matted into his hair gave way slightly. He knew that sensation.

When no further words filled the air, Ouma decided to give him a little nudge. He shifted his hand to grasp Saihara’s shaft and pumped his hand slowly upwards, watching Saihara’s expression shift between surrender to momentary bliss. He smoothed his thumb over the tip of his cock, rubbing in circles against the slit, before sliding his hand back down, just as agonisingly slowly, returning his hand back into the claw like position he’d had it in previously.

“I’m listening,” Ouma hummed invitingly, reminding Saihara that it was his turn. The other’s awareness seemed to inch back into his face, having been lost in the feeling for a moment. He nodded carefully, the leeway in Ouma’s grip allowing him that movement.  

“Right, where should I start?” Ouma could have sworn he’d heard a shakiness to Saihara’s voice, despite how level it sounded. The question was an annoyance though, he wanted him to just talk without prompt, but oh well. He let out a puff of air through his nose in thought, where to begin?

“Why does Akamatsu hate Amami?” That should be a simple enough question to answer, a good starting point. Ouma guessed it would allude to his ‘secret’ at the same time. He dropped all honorifics, making his bark snappier, hoping he sounded more assertive.

“Ah, that,” Saihara started, stopping himself to rephrase. It seemed he’d started talking more freely, less filtered and thought out. That was good. “Akamatsu told me that Amami is incredibly,” he let the pause hang for a moment of suspense, was making Ouma wait for the answer a form of revenge? “Controlling.” The description was unexpected, Amami was so relaxed about everything with everyone, how was he controlling? Saihara continued talking, his confusion must have been apparent on his face. “For the short time they lived together, she said it was unbearable. He had to know what she was doing every second of the day. She said he only let her be on her own at school, because there was no choice since they attended different schools at different year groups. Apparently, he was always like that, especially to her. She thought it was because she was younger, he could boss her around more easily. She claimed he always had a penchant for the weak and vulnerable.”

The story was completely different from anything Ouma had expected to hear. He hadn’t thought anything like that was going on when they were together, but thinking about it, they were always together, weren’t they? The only time they weren’t was when Amami was off doing his audition. He hadn’t considered it controlling, since he didn’t have anything else to do at the time, but he guessed it sort of made sense. That penchant for the weak and vulnerable was almost a slight, but he couldn’t deny it. He was small, his physical weakness apparent just from looking at him. He wasn’t someone with a strong personality that made any kind of impression. The time when Amami started taking interest in him was when he thought that Ouma was ill, when he was missing classes. He didn’t like the way the pieces were falling together, his face stone as he awaited further information.

 

“You know,” Saihara began, straightening his posture as much as he could from his slumped pose. “It was because of me that Amami took notice of you at all.” His tone was low, nearly whispered, words stirring something in Ouma that nagged at his insides. He kept his stare hard. “I got Akamatsu to mention you to Amami, something along the lines of ‘my friend’s friend goes to your school, do you know him? Well, he’s not doing so well at the moment, and he’s getting worried about him. Could you talk to him?’,” Saihara raised his voice to impersonate Akamatsu, a taunt.

He gnawed the side of his mouth, how had Amami approached him that first time? He remembered that it happened out of nowhere, this person he’d never held a conversation with before just turned up by his locker and checked on him. He did check on him, didn’t he? Asked him if he was alright. He still remembered Akamatsu’s words to him when they had met for the first time, that he seemed like Amami’s type. Was it because he looked so weak? Small, frail, quiet? Was that Amami’s type? The scenario made a lot more sense with Saihara’s background, a dizzying queasiness shaking his foundation at the thought. Saihara had been the one to start him and Amami talking, but why? What did he have to gain from that? As it was, Amami was the one who protected him from Saihara, took him away from Saihara, so why?

“Why?” he forced his voice out from his suddenly dry throat. An unimpressive croak of a question. Saihara started looking more comfortable, his dick still hard in Ouma’s hand.

“We’re still talking about Amami right, not me?” Ouma let out a low growl, he should be the only one controlling the conversation and yet Saihara was still calling the shots. He was tempted to squeeze down, hard, but resisted that impulsive twinge. There were still a lot of things to get through, this was just one of many. They’d just get to that later. Focus on Amami for now. 

“Amami being controlling,” he almost spat the word, “was that the big secret you knew about him?” He would be very disappointed if it was, having put so much onus on what this secret was. If it really was just a personality trait that he had that Ouma hadn’t noticed, he’d be annoyed. It was already kind of annoying to think that Amami really was that controlling, and he just hadn’t realised because he was already so dependant on the other boy. Embarrassing, really.

“No, that was just Akamatsu’s problem with him,” Saihara no longer sounded at all hesitant or nervous, voice laced in enjoyment. A silence followed those words, but Ouma understood. He wouldn’t say anything he wasn’t prompted to say, unless it was something that Ouma didn’t want to hear. Was that the game?

 

“Fine,” Ouma huffed, tightening the fist in Saihara’s slick hair, earning a squint of the eye in return. “What _is_ your big secret about Amami then?” He leaned forward over Saihara, attempting to make the scene look more in his control than it was. It probably didn’t make any difference.

“Ah, the secret,” he struggled slightly against the hand in his hair, Ouma’s grip unrelentingly firm. “That would be his,” Saihara strung out the word, Ouma’s patience running thin, “destructive desire.” Ouma let out a frustrated growl at Saihara’s purposely vague wording. With the hand tangled up in dark hair, he gave Saihara’s head an annoyed shake, anger striking his impulses.

“Explain.” The command grinded past his teeth, Saihara’s small wince not even reaching his ears. A chuckle followed from Saihara’s throat, a sort of pleased sound as if he’d fulfilled some kind of self-imposed goal. Ouma didn’t loosen his grip.

“What’s the point in completely controlling every aspect of someone’s life, if not to utterly destroy it?”

The question filled the air in Saihara’s amused voice, no ounce of fear in his body. Ouma mulled over his words, but they didn’t quite make sense. Amami wasn’t like that. He kept watching, waiting for more words, thankfully Saihara obliged after letting the question sit for a moment.

“Akamatsu realised what he was like last year, her love of betrayals helped her work out his plan quite quickly, before he had a chance to set it into place. She came to despise him before she could fall into his trap of worship.” Saihara’s phrasing was eloquent, but Ouma did wish he would get to the point faster, wriggling the uncomfortable hand in Saihara’s underwear. Saihara didn’t seem to mind the stimulation, shifting his own hips side to side slightly with the movement.

“His betrayal,” Ouma urged Saihara to continue, seemingly distracted by the motion of Ouma’s hand. He blinked back into focus.

“He was a perfect big brother in every way, he would dote on and pander to any and all of Akamatsu’s wishes. Their parents were pleased at the way they got on as well, a happy family. Akamatsu didn’t have a lot of friends because of her move from America to here, and she can be a bit,” he hummed for a moment in nostalgia, “standoffish at first. She wanted to meet Harukawa right away when she moved, since they had been pen pals for so long, but Harukawa didn’t want to meet. She couldn’t understand why, they had both expressed interest in wanting to meet in the past. She also thought Harukawa’s messages had become disjointed, and she became really cold towards Akamatsu out of nowhere.”

Saihara recounted the story, his words flowed steadily, no hint of urgency about them. Ouma stayed quiet, totally locked on Saihara while he spoke. “Well, it all made sense to Akamatsu when she found a half-written letter crumpled in the house while she was getting rid of some rubbish. She knew she hadn’t written it, but it was a letter to Harukawa, written in Akamatsu’s handwriting. The contents of it were insulting and aggressive. Amami was trying to cut off her ties to her only friend in the country, because that was the only thing in her life he had no control over.” Ouma was taken aback by the story. He couldn’t believe that Amami would do that. Go through all the effort of copying Akamatsu’s handwriting and responding to her friend’s letters in a way to break them up, it was ridiculous.

“It wasn’t the only thing out of his control,” Ouma muttered instead, catching Saihara’s attention with the argument. “What about when she went to school? She wasn’t making friends, but she could’ve. What was he going to do then?” Saihara scooted himself into a more upright position, Ouma’s hand getting warm and damp with sweat loosened in his hair.

“He couldn’t control what she did at school, but he did give her advice when she asked. She trusted him entirely at that time, so she did ask him for lots of advice. His advice was to not change her attitude or wording, that the people around her would approach her first and get used to it. It was Harukawa that helped teach her how to use her greetings correctly, and told her when she sounded aggressive. In the end, she had lived in America for most of her life, so her practical use of Japanese did need some work.” That sounded cruel. Having her ask for help, and hearing her use impolite forms of the language unknowingly all the time, but not helping her and thus not helping her come across better. It just seemed kind of cruel. But something still didn’t make sense.

“What about with me?” Ouma threw out, Amami hadn’t done anything like that to him. He’d had no life outside of the other boy, but Ouma hadn’t been trying to do anything outside of Amami’s jurisdiction. How was Amami destructive towards him? Saihara looked surprised, as if it had been obvious.

“He joined Danganronpa.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Lots of talking in this one! 
> 
> Forewarning! I'm going abroad, so my next couple of uploads may be disrupted. I've already half written the next chapter, and I'm hoping to finish that on the plane so all being well next chapter will be uploaded as normal on Friday (probably at a very different time!). The chapter after that may not be uploaded on Friday, but pushed back to early in the next week.


	41. Overload

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That doesn’t make sense,” Ouma’s response was immediate. Saihara flinched at the speed of the reply.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Ouma’s response was immediate. Saihara flinched at the speed of the reply, no time to mull over what should have been a shocking statement.

“It doesn’t?” Saihara slowly repeated, lost, but Ouma wasn’t revelling in his confusion. His hold was light on the other boy, ache seeping into his joints, all focus redirected to their conversation.

“Why did you and Akamatsu nominate Amami?” Ouma questioned, removing his hand from Saihara’s pants, much to his apparent displeasure. His body was getting uncomfortable, and he didn’t really feel like his grip was the thing keeping him in control any more, more just the threat. He leaned in closer to Saihara’s face. “You just claimed that Amami joined Danganronpa to spite me after making me dependant on him, right?” he clarified, voice dropped low, held steady. Saihara nodded, Ouma’s change in deminer seemed to have caught the other boy off guard. He kept his normally wide eyes narrowed. “Then why get involved? You nominated him before knowing that he auditioned. Why?” Saihara’s gaze shifted away from Ouma’s intense staring, but Ouma didn’t shift. His cold eyes remained locked on the other’s face.

“Well, uh,” Saihara continued looking at anything but Ouma’s face, “that’s, um.” Ouma seized the front of his shirt roughly, shaking his body.

“Answer.” He growled, adrenaline rushing through his body, loud pulsing in his ears blocking out all sound except Saihara’s voice. He could feel that his breathing was harder, probably louder, than normal, but it didn’t matter. It was a little thrilling, if anything.

“H-he was, he was in the way,” the reasoning would have convinced Ouma before, but the stuttered, hesitant way it was said made him question it. Certainly, there was something more. He kept up his intensity, staying close to the other boy, keeping his body forwards until their torsos were almost touching, grip held tightly on Saihara’s shirt, lifting him away from the sofa. He wasn’t sure exactly how intimidating he really looked to an outsider, but it seemed to make Saihara lose his nerve at least. “And it’s, it’s helpful. To us. W-well, honestly, I don’t think Akamatsu really thought that they would take our nomination, the signature was a bit, you know. It was kind of a relief that he auditioned actually.”

“What does that mean?” Ouma cut off his near rant, the other boy’s face reddened with some sort of excitement. It was off-putting.

“Next, uh, season,” he breathed back in response, his lips wet with rouged combination of saliva and blood. “They say,” he continued when there was only silence from Ouma, “that if you know someone that was on Danganronpa, or other people that are auditioning for the same season as you, that you’re more likely to get in. It’s because they can’t completely get rid of your memories of other people, so contestants having relationships with other contestants in their season in really helpful for Team Danganronpa. They’ll be naturally close, or natural enemies, or whatever. Like, when people are related in the show, they’re probably related in real life too. So, like, Amami’s on Danganronpa, so there’s a really good chance of you getting on the show because you were really close. There’s a really good chance of Akamatsu getting on the show too, because they’re related, yeah? That means I can get on the show too, because I’m close with both of you. It’s perfect, right?” Saihara spoke uninterrupted, mouth moving faster than his brain it seemed, the redness of his face spreading down his neck, heat practically radiating off his body as he lost himself in speech. Ouma could only stare on, listening to every word that poured from the wretched boy’s mouth. Every disgusting, awful word.

 

He started to spend time with Saihara because Momota offered him a deal. No more bullying if you hang out with my friend since you both share an interest in Danganronpa. Saihara had been watching Ouma since before that time, proven by the pictures and his collection box. Saihara may have put Momota up to making the deal with him based on that. He had yet to tell Saihara that he knew about the prior stalking.

Amami first spoke to him because Akamatsu told Amami that she was worried about Ouma. Saihara had put her up to that. Then Ouma became completely reliant on Amami partially out of fear of Saihara.

Akamatsu and Saihara nominated Amami for Danganronpa. Luckily for them and their dodgy nomination form, Amami auditioned himself. He did this to hurt Ouma, whose entire life had come to revolve completely around him, because he apparently has a history of wanting to break people down that need him.

Because Amami was successful to be on Danganronpa, they now all had an increased chance of being on the next season of Danganronpa, if they all applied or were nominated.

 

Ouma’s posture dropped, the fire lost from him. Was this the truth he’d so desperately needed to know? That Saihara was the cause of everything, good and bad? He planned this, all of this, just to get on Danganronpa. Just to get them both on Danganronpa. He didn’t deserve this. He wasn’t worth this.

“Why,” his voice had been crumpled down to a whisper, “why me?” His body was probably heavy on Saihara’s lap now, the excitement having died down completely. He just felt tired. He was fed up of looking at Saihara’s face. He completely released Saihara’s hair, letting both arms fall limp at his sides.

“I’ve already told you,” the body below him shifted, Saihara moving one of his arms up, the backs of his fingers brushed Ouma’s unmoving face, stroking his cheek in a tender movement. “You’re special.”

“Cut the crap!” He snatched Saihara’s wrists, holding them both tightly in the space between their chests. His voice rang out sharply in the air, the sudden shout surprising them both. At his upset, Saihara just smiled. That same smug fucking smile that he always had when he knew he’d won. Saihara always won. Saihara always won because he was the only one playing the game, everyone else were just pieces, moving to his will whether they knew it or not. It made Ouma sick. Sick that he’d ever thought that he was the one controlling Saihara.

“I know that you saw it,” Saihara’s voice was eerily calm, befitting the smile that had spread across his abused mouth. Ouma clicked his tongue behind his teeth. “The box, I mean. The one under my bed.” Ouma felt his veins run cold, hands becoming clammy around Saihara’s wrists. “You were in a big rush to leave, it made sense once I reached to look at it myself and found it had moved. I always keep it in the same place you know. There’s a bump in the floor there that I rest an edge against so it doesn’t slide away when I get it, but it had moved.” Ouma’s breath hitched, he tried to tell himself that him knowing that made no difference, but it didn’t halt the fear itching through him.

“A-and?” he stuttered, a timid quiver in his voice putting his emotions on full display.

“And so,” he drawled, licking at his sore lip, “you know that I had my eyes on you before Momota ‘introduced’ us.” His fingers wiggled to make the air quotes, wrists still fastened together by Ouma’s own hands. Ouma had already had that thought, but hearing it actually said aloud was something completely different. His nose began to pick up the smells of the meat overcooking and charring. He saw Saihara’s nose twitch too, picking up the same smell but didn’t react. Ouma guessed he had to choose, answers or food. One was clearly a million times more important than the other at this point in time.

“Why were you watching me?” he couldn’t keep the fear out of his voice as the question left his lips, his trembling voice matching his weakening grip of the other’s wrists. Control was lost. If he was ever in control at all, that is. Saihara has always been the one playing him, why was this time any different? At least he was getting some answers at last, whether he liked what he was hearing or not. He really had the worst luck.

Saihara peeled his arms free from Ouma’s hands without much effort, Ouma’s own arms just hovering between their bodies. The boy beneath him used his newly freed arms to reposition himself more comfortably on the sofa, practically now just sitting with the smaller boy on his lap.

 

“I saw a post on a lesser used forum. Your post,” Ouma’s breath caught in his throat, eyes wide. He usually only lurked on all those websites, only one time had he gathered to courage to actually post something. He’d posted on a small, quiet forum, more exclusive feeling instead of posting on a big popular board where he knew his submission would just get washed away. He’d barely received any response at all from it, he hadn’t even thought about that post in so long.

“That, that was a long time ago,” Ouma whispered, more to himself than to the other person in the room. He’d made the post when his phone was still quite new, when he was still excited about being able to get onto the internet and find all these different websites. He’d dreamed of having all sorts of online friends to talk with about all sorts of things, Danganronpa included. He thought he’d find it easier to talk online with people, being able to think before sending a message, much easier than trying to talk to people in real life. Of course, none of this had happened. Really all he’d posted had been a pathetic edgy cry for help like so many other people. Nothing had come of it, or so he’d thought.

“It was,” Saihara hummed, seeming to enjoy control being entirely shifted back onto his side. “You posted a picture of the area you lived in, complaining that everyone in the world was awful and Danganronpa was an amazing show because it was promoting the deaths of those terrible people.” Ouma cringed, his face bringing a light laugh from the other. Ouma remembered the photo he’d posted, it was of an area just down the road from his house where the streets were always dirty, the walls all broken and tattered. Just a terrible looking area, an image perfect for his loathing rant. He was really embarrassed that someone he now knew in real life had seen that post, he was ashamed, though he knew that it shouldn’t have been the overwhelming emotion to feel at this time.

“You really found me from that picture?” He was honestly kind of impressed if that was the case. Was it really that identifying?

“I did,” he confirmed simply, “I thought I recognised the area, so I went down out of curiosity and staked out that area, though it wasn’t until a few months later that I actually went through with it. On one of my days of watching that area, I saw you walking around with your phone out, saw the charm on your phone and knew it must have been you!” Saihara sounded so excited in recalling this tale, but it still didn’t quite add up.

“But, why did you care?” He asked, genuine curiosity showing through now that his anger had given way completely, “loads of people post on all those forums every day, why did you try to find me?”

“Most people don’t include pictures of where they live,” he replied in a somewhat joking tone, Ouma feeling some heat rushing to his cheeks. What a stupid person he’d been. “But your post was interesting. I thought to myself, someone with an opinion like that, that sees Danganronpa as a sort of way to cull the population, a kind of genocide of a certain type of person. It was refreshing to see a new reason for someone to enjoy the show, I hadn’t seen someone talk about it quite like that before. I wanted to know what kind of person you were.” Ouma tilted his head at that remark, how was Saihara supposed to know what kind of person he was without ever approaching him?

“So you started stalking me to find out what I was like?” Ouma asked to make sure he was following correctly, earning a hesitant nod from Saihara. Maybe he didn’t take too kindly to the term ‘stalking’, following probably would have been better. Or watching. All of them sounded a bit scary though. “So, what did you find out?”

“I found out a lot of things, like which school you went to, which year, that you didn’t have any friends, that there was a lot of shouting in your house, your parents drank a lot and kept strange hours. It was obvious what was going on in there really, I bet all the neighbours know, don’t you think? But no one does anything, it’s sad really. So I thought, you were perfect. Perfect for me.” Ouma knew what his words inferred, his ‘Ultimate Victim’. Because he hated the world, lived a sad, lonely little life, and wouldn’t be missed by any family or friends, Saihara decided that he would be perfect to go on Danganronpa with him. Thought he could decide that Ouma was deserving of death.

“Did you ever consider that I didn’t want to die? That I wouldn’t want to go on that show?” he questioned through a tightened jaw, hands balled into the fabric of his open jacket.

“Hmm, honestly it was a bit of a surprise,” he admitted, “but it makes sense. Your post insinuated that you hated the kind of person that goes on Danganronpa. That’s what makes you even more perfect! A boy being brutally murdered for all to see on a show that he never wanted to be a part of. It’s far more befitting of an Ultimate Victim than being all excited to participate, right?”

 

Ouma felt sick, he wanted out. He’d found out so much today it was nauseating, his head spinning. He hated the way Saihara was smiling, pink faced, a sheen of sweat across his body. The smell of burned food was getting stronger as well. Saihara’s lips twisted down into a bit of a frown, the rest of his face betraying his expression.

“Guess we won’t be having that dinner then,” he half joked, half complained. Ouma shifted himself completely off of the other boy, wanting to be away, wanting to not feel his heat anymore.

“I should go,” he whispered while Saihara also stood, heading to the kitchen urgently to turn off the cooker.

Ouma followed him, the kitchen being on the way to the door. He saw Saihara throw out the blackened slabs of meat through the doorway while he slid on his shoes. Saihara’s hair was a mess from Ouma’s treatment of it earlier.

“Sorry about the food,” he called through as he prepared to leave, surprised that Saihara was letting him go so easily. He guessed the threat of burning down the apartment saved him a bit there.

“See you on Friday,” Saihara called back, bending round the kitchen doorframe with a wet sponge in hand. At least he cleaned his kitchen, even if his own personal hygiene was a bit questionable. Ouma couldn’t wait to shower. He rushed home and did exactly that.

Alone in Amami’s house again it began to strike him how little time he had left there. It was terrifying. He wandered aimlessly, throwing open random cupboards and drawers again. It was almost like a habit now. Still no magic money or ways out had appeared in any of them yet though. All he saw were the same old things. He stomach twanged as he looked in the food cupboards, hands working on auto pilot as he began to pull out items that he could eat without cooking. Mind completely blank, so overloaded with new information that he just couldn’t process any thoughts, he started tearing open packet after packet, wrapper after wrapper, shoving the food in his mouth without any regard to anything. Just whatever he could grab that didn’t need cooking, whether he liked it cold or not, he opened and ate.

He had no idea how long he did this for, only aware of the growing bin bag as he filled it with waste packaging. Then, he went too far. He ate and ate, pouring a concoction of foods not meant to be mixed together when he ate way over his limit. He didn’t realise he’d ever been full, but he was way more than full. His stomach felt painfully swollen, the burning of bile rising up. He ran to the bathroom and threw himself onto his knees in front of the toilet, his binge rushed back up through his throat and passed his lips. It was unpleasant to vomit so soon after eating, the undigested food hurting as it came back up in lumps.

Finally, he had nothing left to throw back up, weakly coughing the last of it into the bowl, hair sticking to his cold, sweaty face. His body shook in its curled over form. What had he been doing? Why?

He was such a mess.

Everything was such a mess.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> I likely will not release the next chapter on Friday due to being away on holiday at the moment!
> 
> I wasn't planning to go to AX anime expo but I actually did go today by surprise! It was really good!


End file.
